


Begin Again

by maikurosaki



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captain America Big Bang 2018 | cabigbang, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slightly Insecure Bucky Barnes, kind of slow burn, mentions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maikurosaki/pseuds/maikurosaki
Summary: Breaking up with the love of his life? Gut-wrenching. Believe him, Bucky knows what he is talking about. After all, he is the guy that lost his arm in a terrible car accident, went through intense and painful physiotherapy, and almost lost his dream of becoming a professional engineer.But life has a funny way of mocking Bucky's plans. When an accident brings the said love of his life back into his life, Bucky isn't surprised to notice that his feelings aren't as buried as he thought they were. However, there's just as much resentment and pain, not to mention a secret or two, and Bucky doesn't think he can be brave again. Not when it comes to Steve Rogers. Not when he might get his heart broken all over again.–Or the one in which Bucky and Steve try to find their way back to each other.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Captain America Big Bang Challenge 2018. Art by the wonderful [waitingforasaturday](https://waitingforasaturday.tumblr.com/), to whom I'm extremely grateful for her work and kindness. Thank you for choosing my story.  
> **  
> I am greatly indebted to [insomnicat94](http://insomnicat94.tumblr.com/), my wonderful beta-reader, as always too kind and all too patient with me.  
> **  
> Thank you to the mods @CAPBB18, for their awesome organizational skills and ensuring that everyone has a blast.

 

Bucky checked the blueprints for what it felt like the thousandth time, then checked the simulated model on his computer, and then checked the blueprint again. Something didn't add up. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned backwards, then ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. It was just a tiny error. However, this tiny error could jeopardize the entire project and that would mean starting all over again, which was something Bucky couldn't conceive of, not when it was his first major project since he got his professional engineer license. Thus, although he was aware that he was only in the initial stages of the project, Bucky wanted everything to be perfect for his presentation next week.

He closed his eyes and hummed to himself.

“The structural integrity is preserved by the additional pillars on the west side of the building,” Bucky explained to an invisible audience, applying his favorite method of understanding something – he'd been doing it since college when some of his classes had turned out to be much more difficult than he'd anticipated. “By preserving the integrity of the nave and maintaining the current construction materials that we have chosen, we can say that the problem lies within elsewhere. Where though, goddamn it?” Bucky opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, spinning his chair and trying to imagine the entire project. “However,” he said softly after a while, “the structure footing resistance is affected if the angle poles –”

“Should I be concerned that one of my brilliant civil engineers began talking to himself?” T'Challa smirked when Bucky winced as he turned around to look at his manager and friend, one of the few people who gave him a chance as a young engineer in training with nothing but a bachelor's degree and passion for civil engineering.

“You might have to if I can't find the error soon,” Bucky sighed dejectedly as he stared at the disarray of paperwork on his desk. “I feel like I've redone all the calculations at least a thousand times and one tiny thing still doesn't add up.” He looked up at T'Challa, who now entered Bucky's small office – still a long way to go to earn that corner office that people talked about – and grabbed at the back of a chair, smiling comfortingly at Bucky.

“I have confidence that you'll succeed. However, I do believe you're in need of a break – do not let this project consume you until you don't know what you wanted to do with it in the first place. So, take the weekend off, stay away from the blueprints and come back on Monday with a rested mind and fresh eyes. I'm sure that you'll see the whole project from a different perspective once you take a break from it.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky bit his lip and looked down at the same paperwork. Maybe he could sneak in tomorrow morning for a couple of hours and see whether he could –

“Yes, I'm sure.” T'Challa smirked. “However, if Okoye tells me that you set a foot in your office, I'll make sure you regret it.” Bucky winced when he heard the name of the security chief. Yeah, he didn't need _that_ kind of trouble at all. “Now I believe that you have a dinner tonight that you need to attend to.” And this time T'Challa chuckled when he saw Bucky's wince – his mom was going to kill him, and she was going to make it as painful as possible if he was more than half an hour late. Or Becca. Depended on who was more worried or hungrier – it was an insignificant distance when it came to those two. And dad was just going to watch because he was a smart man, not like his moron of a son.

“You're right. I'd better go before mom files a missing person report with the local police.” He stood up and managed to grab a few things, shoving them in his messenger bag, under T'Challa's watchful eyes. “Can I just come tomorrow morning? Just for a few hours?” Bucky was ready to beg as he made his way to the elevator followed closely by T'Challa. “I promise I'll leave by twelve.”

“No.” T'Challa shook his head. “Honestly, you should be glad when your boss isn't calling you for work on Saturday instead of begging to work. There'll be plenty of weekends spent here once you get the project up and running. For now, go home, enjoy your Friday evening and I'll see you on Monday.”

“Fine, but I'm blaming you when I crash and burn.” Bucky pressed the button of the elevator and looked around. Most of the offices were already empty. He rubbed his stubbled cheek. It was later than he thought.

“Yes, I'd like to see you try.” T'Challa smiled softly. “Say hello to your mother for me.”

“I will.” Bucky stepped inside the empty elevator and smiled gratefully at T'Challa. “Thank you. I'll see you on Monday. Have a great weekend.”

“You too.” The elevator doors closed and Bucky sighed dejectedly as he leaned against the blue wall. He was sure that there was nothing he could do at this point but accept T'Challa's advice and stay away for the weekend.

Bucky nodded at a few familiar faces that got on the elevator and thought yet again how lucky he had been to get the paid internship at Black Panther Inc., one of the top civil engineering companies in New York. After he took his engineer in training exam, he managed to snag a place at T'Challa's company. At the beginning of the internship, there have been five engineers. By the end of that first year, there were only two left – Bucky and the guy who had become his best friend in the meantime, Clint Barton. By the end of the second year, when Bucky had been hired and was working under the direct supervision of Nick Fury – one of the top civil engineers in the country – Bucky was living the best time of his life.

He sighed as he made his way towards his car in the underground parking lot. He had been young and foolish back then. He thought he had the world in the palm of his hand. And for two more years he did, but then it all shattered to pieces. Like his current project would if he didn't pull himself together and didn't find the goddamn error. He was too dramatic for his own good tonight and wallowing in self-pity wasn't going to solve the problem.

He sighed again and ran his fingers through his hair before unlocking the door and throwing his messenger bag on the back seat. He sat in the driver's seat and squirmed a little to find the best position before starting the engine. His full lips curled into a faint smile. At least he still got to be independent and he didn't have to rely on anyone to drive him around. He adjusted his mirror and then drove off.

After the accident, he thought he'd never get into a car ever again. The fact that he had lost his arm in the process also had something to do with it. But making his way to downtown Manhattan every single day using the public transport, having people staring at him, being jolted and pushed, or being thanked for his service when his closest brush with the military had been dating a veteran had been too much for Bucky and his already fraying nerves. Getting an automatic car and adapting it to his needs was the best thing he had done for himself in a while. And while being stuck in traffic sometimes really wasn't fun, Bucky still preferred his car to taking the subway ever again.

He was close to his parents' house when he turned onto a familiar street. Bucky parked the car but let the engine running and watched the corner apartment on the fourth floor. The windows were dark, no blue curtains hiding the bedroom from sight anymore, shielding them away from the world. The tiny kitchen window had some straight white blinds that must have kept that small room completely in shadow. He could almost taste the morning coffee shared between delicious kisses and sleepy hums, the shy rays of sun barely touching them. He could almost feel another's warmth against his body, their awkward dance in attempting to move around the tiny space, shoulders bumping, eyes rolling, giggles resounding. They had been so happy there.

He didn't know why he kept this stupid ritual after all these years. Five fucking years and he was still yearning for a guy that hadn't chosen him when the time had come. He swallowed thickly, something ugly churning in the pit of his stomach. They had been so happy in that apartment and so damn miserable in those last few months. Where had all that love gone? Had all those wonderful dreams of a lifetime spent together just disappeared? All that was left now was his seldom pilgrimage when Bucky passed by this apartment block every once in a while and recalled the details of a love story that had ended so long ago.

The apartment was about ten blocks away from his parents' home and the only silver lining that Bucky was able to take from this whole affair was the fact that he no longer did this trip weekly. But in the beginning... in the beginning, it had been hard not to come around on this street, remember all those wonderful afternoons, then all those bitter evenings when he had felt he was talking at the walls when Steve had been as impenetrable as granite. They stayed together until they couldn't recognize each other anymore and then one afternoon he had returned to a half-empty apartment and a letter and that was it.

Bucky shook his head and joined the quiet traffic again. There was no point thinking about Steve Rogers or his goddamn blue eyes. He seriously needed to take an alternative route next time.

~*~

When he arrived, his father was reading _The New York Times_ in the living-room. Well, actually, he was dozing in front of the TV, with the newspaper on his knees. He mustn't have arrived long before Bucky since he was still dressed in his work suit. His jacket was lying askew on the armchair next to the couch and his tie was loose. Bucky took great pleasure in flopping dramatically onto the couch, startling the hell out of him. He smiled like the little shit that he was when his dad just scowled at him.

“I see I raised you well,” his dad said and rubbed his face, trying to look a little more awake. Bucky couldn't help but grin a little wider.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I enjoy the fact that I can blame a lot of my short-comings on you?”

“Extensively.” Dad set the newspaper on the coffee table and changed the channel. He made a face and changed it again. “I think you were twelve and there was a diagram involved. Or maybe a pie-chart. I'm not sure.” He chuckled and looked aside to Bucky. “How's the engineering life treating you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. I still can't find that error that I mentioned you over the phone yesterday so I'm trying really hard not to bang my head against any available flat surface.” Bucky pinched the bridge of the nose and smiled wobbly. “Other than that, same old, same old.”

“I've got all the confidence that you'll find it.” Dad clamped his hand over Bucky's shoulder and squeezed in reassurance. “You know that project like the back of your hand. I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it.”

“I hope so.” Bucky sighed and relaxed under his father's warm touch. “Otherwise, I might have to change my job.”

“A little too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Hey, I could still be a lawyer. It's never too late.” Bucky pursed his lips into a futile attempt to keep himself from grinning like a jackal. It was his dad's sore spot that both of his children didn't pursue a career in law. Bucky ended up a civil engineer while Becca worked in art restoration. Or on her way into the field, anyway.

“Really?” Dad took his hand away and changed the channel. Again. He had made channel-surfing a national sport in the Barnes household. “You still dream being prettier than Tom Cruise?”

“I _know_ I am.” Bucky faked a scowl. “I want to know the truth!” he quoted Cruise's character from _A Few Good Men_. Bucky might have had a crush on Jack Nicholson though, not that he was going to admit that to his dad.

“Har har.” Dad actually rolled his eyes at Bucky. “Maybe acting is more befitting. I swear you get your dramatic flair from your mom's side.”

“Speaking of her, where's mom?”

“She's in the kitchen, trying to finish the sauce. We're having roasted chicken with I don't know what kind of sauce, mashed potatoes and vegetables.”

“Sounds good.” Bucky's lips twitched again. “And what are you going to eat?”

“Oh, so we're making fun of the guy with heart problems,” dad huffed and tried to hide his smile.

“I'm glad that you admit your health issues only when it suits you. But when the doctor wants to talk to you about a new treatment or diet, zilch.”

“I'll admit to nothing.” Dad returned his attention back to the TV. “Also, I think your mom has managed to put aside some mashed potatoes and vegetables for me while ignoring my expressed wishes of adding a little salt.” He made himself more comfortable on the couch. “That being said, I think you should check on your mom. She was a little bit worried about you.”

“When isn't she worried?” Bucky sighed but stood up and shrugged his jacket off. “I'll be right back.”

“Yell if you need a hand.” Puh-lease, Bucky definitely got the being-a-little-shit gene from his dad.

Bucky chuckled and made his way to the kitchen where his mom was still looming over a pot of something that smelled delicious. Bucky took a moment to lean against the doorway and just watch his mom. She was getting smaller and greyer around the temples, but her beautiful chestnut hair was still soft-looking and thick, tied at the back in an elegant bun. She had started talking about retirement after dad's minor cardiac event last year and about taking it easier, although this was a difficult decision to make since she'd been a Math teacher most of her life. However, as he watched her, she seemed more tired than the usual and Bucky was afraid that one of these days he was going to get a call about her.

Bucky's accident, just a few short months after his breakup, had hit all his loved ones like a freight train. The stress of the entire situation, the fact that his parents had to make some difficult decisions on his behalf, had taken a toll on both his parents and Becca as well. Losing his left arm as a consequence of the accident had almost done them in. For the first few days after he had woken up, his mom couldn't bear to see him without shedding a tear or two, Becca had been stoic and silent and dad had aged by at least fifteen years. The stress and pain of that particular situation, only aggravated even more by the financial burden of it, the fight with the insurance company to cover what they were supposed to in the first place, had affected his parents in such a way that his father's cardiac event last spring hadn't been a surprise to anyone.

“Do you need a hand with that?” he asked softly. His mom turned and scowled at him.

“You can set the table if you're going to be Mr. Smarty-Pants,” she replied, not falling into his trap. Bucky shook his head but followed his mom's instruction and rummaged after the plates. It was his sister that came up with the idea – when they realized how many expressions used the words _arm_ and _hand_ in the English language. They were either going to frown and apologize every five seconds when they'd put their foot in their mouth, or they could actively make fun of it all and lighten up.

It was gallows humor at its finest and his mom hated it. She hated it every single time they used an expression like that and the first few times it happened, she had been almost hysterical. But as time progressed and Bucky learned to be independent and was able to live on his own again, she slightly relaxed on the matter. Not that she still wouldn't scowl at them every time she heard any of them using a forbidden phrase.

“So, dad says you're worried about me,” Bucky said as he arranged the forks then took out the glasses.

“Well, I wouldn't be your mother if I didn't worry about you and Becca.” His mom brought the wooden spoon to her mouth and tasted the hot sauce without even glancing at Bucky. “Hmm, it needs more pepper.” She sprinkled a little bit of pepper in the pot then mixed again. “You're not wearing your prosthetic arm again, I see.”

“It itches and it's heavy,” Bucky grumbled as he arranged the glasses and ignored his mom' pointed look this time. “I'm fine. It's not like carrying dead weight around me every day would somehow improve my self-image.”

“But people would ask fewer questions.”

“Well, I'm not going out with people that don't know what happened in the first place.”

“Yes, I kind of realized that you haven't been on a date in a while.” Oh, his mom was definitely an expert at underestimating things. Bucky hadn't dated in more than two years. Not that anyone was jumping at the chance of dating a cripple. But he wasn't going to mention that to mom. She hated that word more than the arm puns.

“Ma, you know I've been busy with work,” he finally replied, a little more forceful than the usual. “Also, my dating life is not something I want to talk about with you.”

“I'm just saying that maybe if you kept your eyes opened a little more, someone good might come your way. Even with your busy schedule.”

“Mom...”

“Just the other day, I was talking about it with Lisa – do you remember Lisa Hanson? Anyway, she mentioned –”

“Mom, no!” Bucky's words echoed harshly in the stuffy kitchen. He scowled at his mom. “I really don't want you to set me up with your friend's son or cousin or nephew or whoever the hell he is. I'm fine the way I am. I need to be fully focused on my job and I really don't need a guy that will take one look at me and run in the opposite direction. Or stay out of pity. Because, yeah, that's exactly what would make me feel better.”

“Or maybe, you know, hypothetically speaking, of course,” his mom fully turned towards him and glared at him just as hard, “you meet a nice young man who just wants to get to know you. There are good men out there, Bucky. Good men that wouldn't care about a missing arm when they see how brilliant and wonderful you are. You just need to put yourself out there.”

“Put myself out there? No, thank you, I'd rather watch paint dry.”

“Why are you so stubborn?” Mom looked visibly upset, her eyes suddenly becoming wet. She bit her lip as if that would ever stop her from saying what she wanted to say. “I just want you to be happy. If you think that Steve Rogers is going to come back into your life again and sweep you off your feet, you got another thing coming.”

“Now you're just being mean.” Bucky sighed and went to hug his distraught mom. “I know Steve isn't coming back, mom. I wouldn't want him to, anyway. But I'm tired of having the same conversation with you about my love life. Look, I promise that if I like a guy, I'll try not to be my grumpy usual self and I'll give him a chance. But can we please stop having the same conversation almost every week? It's getting really exhausting.”

“Promise you'll give this hypothetical guy a chance?” Mom's arms wrapped tighter around his midriff. “Even if it's just for your poor worried mom?”

“I promise,” he mumbled in her hair, refraining from sighing again, and kissed the crown of her head.

“Oh man, did I just miss another _Bucky, we need to talk about your sex life_ thing again?” Becca startled them both and laughed out loud when she got a pair of matching scowls in return. “Be careful, bro, no one likes grumpy old men.”

“Har har,” Bucky rolled his eyes and let go of his mom so he could hug Becca too. His little sister pecked him on the cheek and then let him go. “Also, for the record, I like my sex life just fine.”

“Thank you, but we don't need any details about your experience on Grindr, thank you very much,” Becca made obnoxious puking sounds.

“I don't have Grindr!”

“What is Grindr?” Mom asked innocently as she set mashed potatoes and veggies on the table.

“You really don't want to know, mom,” Becca said as she took a seat at the table and grinned evilly at her brother. “But I think Bucky would benefit tremendously from downloading that app.”

“Oh my God, Becca, I'm not downloading Grindr!” Bucky threw his arm up in defeat then sat at the table opposite her completely mortified.

“You're such a prude!” She cackled as mom just shook her head at them both and called out, “George, dinner is ready!”

“Comin'!”

“Is that like match.com or something like that?” mom asked as she took out the roasted chicken, carefully cut in small pieces and Bucky smiled at seeing his mom's effort.

“Who's using match.com?” Dad came in and sat at the table rubbing his hands in the delight. “This looks wonderful, Winnie.”

“Thank you, George.” She kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him. “And apparently, Bucky could download an app that is similar to match.com.”

“Mom, trust me, Grindr isn't similar to match.com.” Bucky rolled his eyes then scowled at Becca. “Can we please just stop talking about dating apps and my love life in general?”

“Your non-existent love life?” Dad smirked. Seriously, it was unbefitting for a man his age to look so happy with his own joke.

“Oh, wow, I was born in a family of comedians,” Bucky grumbled as he put some roasted chicken on his plate.

“And don't you forget it!” Becca high-fived their dad and then dug carefully into her mashed potatoes.

Bucky shook his head in affectionate annoyance. He swallowed thickly as he began to put some vegetables on his plate. Gratefulness washed over him in a soothing wave as he looked around him at his family. They've been incredibly supportive and Bucky was aware that without them, he would have succumbed to his negative thoughts after the accident. Back then, when he lost his arm and missed his opportunity to take the final professional engineer examination, after making so many sacrifices only to be left with nothing, Bucky couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel. He'd been refusing to eat, rapidly losing weight and mass muscle, setting back his recovery to the point where everyone thought that they were going to lose him. And he had wanted to lose himself for good.

However, one afternoon, after talking to his doctors, his parents came to see Bucky. He watched them as they tiredly sat down without saying so much as a word. And then, his dad, the man that had always had a pun to use, that had always thrown jokes around and had been the strongest person Bucky knew, began to cry. He just took Bucky's hand in his and bringing it to his forehead, he bawled like a baby.

His mom had sat there, on the other side of the hospital bed, silent tears washing her face. And Bucky couldn't bear it – he couldn't bear being the cause of their misery, he couldn't be the one that hurt his parents when they'd been nothing but supportive, patient, and loving. So he took his hand out of his dad's and hugged him as best as he could. At that, his father just cried harder, and then Bucky started crying too, mom joined their hug and they became a mass of tears and pain.

Bucky pushed past the sudden lump in his throat and added some mashed potatoes next to his veggies. Bucky fought afterwards for his own future, as much as for his parents, and with the help of everyone involved and a psychologist, he managed to turn the tide around. He went through physiotherapy therapy, he went through therapy, he laughed with his family and made the most inappropriate jokes related to his missing arm and passed the exam for his professional engineer license.

Now, almost four years after the accident, the massive adjustments that he had had to make in his life didn't seem so massive anymore. He got his life back. His mom still hated their jokes, but each time she'd find a new recipe and adapted it to Bucky's needs by cutting the meat in smaller pieces to be easily grabbed with the fork instead of using a knife, or cooking a lot of meals that could be eaten just with a fork or a spoon, his heart swell in his chest with how much he loved her and his family.

"So, I have an announcement to make," Becca said, her eyes twinkling with pride, as they all began to eat.

"Yeah, that doesn't sound ominous at all," Bucky mumbled, mouth still full of mashed potatoes and chicken.

"Please, don't speak with your mouth full, dear brother of mine," Becca said, making a face. "It's as disgusting as always. Where were you raised? In a barn?"

"I've got a distinct feeling that you were right there with me."

"Yeah, but I got to be smart and actually learned my manners."

"Please tell us the news, Becca," their mom interrupted them with a put-upon frown on her face. "I really don't feel like listening to you two yapping at each other for the next half an hour."

Becca put her fork aside and grinning like the big loser that she was, hit the table in a poor attempt at simulating a drum-roll. "You're looking at the youngest and newest recipient of the Stark scholarship at the Met Museum, which will begin in autumn."

Everyone at the table applauded her and Bucky high-fived her over the table, trying to ruffle her hair before she caught on to his intentions. Their dad leaned back against the chair and watched her proudly. Their mom got up and hugged her tight, and then Dad had to hug her too.

"Who's the genius now, big brother?" Becca cackled, crossing her arms and looking without a care in the world. Her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with happiness and pride.

Bucky felt his chest constrict with how much he loved her and felt proud of her in that moment. "I'm proud of you, sis.” He bowed at her slightly. “I'm really proud.”

The rest of the dinner was spent in talking about Becca's work at the Met and how much the scholarship really meant in term of future employment plans. They talked and joked and Bucky forgot his worries about work and plans. He was just content being there with his family and feeling loved.

~*~

It was almost four o'clock in the morning when the phone rang. Bucky woke up almost right away. Since his dad's cardiac event last spring, his phone was never switched off. He pushed Britta, his asshole of a cat, off his chest – gently though because those grumpy claws could reach him through three sets of kevlar – and grabbed his cell from the nightstand.

"'Lo?" he mumbled, his voice barely there. Mooney, his dog, stirred at the end of his bed and opened his eyes for just a moment before making himself even more comfortable and closing his eyes again with a puppy sigh.

"Is this James Barnes?"

"Shit." He straightened up right away, wide awake now, and slightly panicky. "Is it about my dad? Is he okay?"

"No, sir, I'm not calling in regards to Mr. Barnes senior." The nurse, or whoever she was, cleared her throat before carrying on, "My name is Lucy, Mr. Barnes. I'm calling from University Hospital in regards to a Mr. Steve Grant Rogers. You're listed here as his emergency contact."

Jesus Christ! Jesus fucking Christ! Bucky took a deep breath, trying to calm down enough to hear the nurse past the roaring blood in his ears. He let the cell rest on the pillow next to his head for a second and wiped at his face with a shaky hand. He needed to get his shit together.

“Mr. Barnes? Mr. Barnes, are you still there?"

He grabbed the cell again and nodded stupidly before he realized his mistake and added, "Yeah, sorry. I –" _I what?_ What did he exactly want to say? _I what?_ He hadn't had anyone mention Steve’s name so casually around him for the past five years and suddenly, just hearing it, something hot and bitter churned within the pit of his stomach. "Sorry, I'm still here. Is he all right?"

"He's been involved in a car accident. A careless driver slammed into him from the rear. The situation is serious but not life-threatening." The nurse sounded exhausted and Bucky wondered how many times she had to do this every day. How many times did one get to give people bad news before they'd go insane? "We were wondering how long it would take you to get here?"

"To Chicago?" Bucky shook his head, a gesture completely ineffective when it came to clear up his mind. "I'm not sure which is the earliest flight but I'll –"

"Excuse me, sir," she interrupted his rambling firmly, "I'm talking about University Hospital in Brooklyn, New York."

"What?" Seriously, Bucky might die twice within the same night. "I'm sorry, it's just that the last time I spoke with Steve, he had moved to Chicago.” The nurse hummed in acknowledgment, a little impatience now sipping through the line like moisture on a hot humid summer day. Bucky swallowed thickly and said, “I can be there in forty minutes give or take?"

"That would be wonderful, sir. Thank you. We'll see you soon."

She hung up abruptly, effectively cutting Bucky off from asking any other questions. He ran his fingers through his hair then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was a futile attempt to calm down. Jesus Christ! Steve Rogers was back in New York and no one had mentioned that. Did anyone else know about it? He took a shuddering breath and stood up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Steve fucking Rogers!

 


	2. Chapter Two

His hand was shaking as the automatic door to the ER opened to reveal a disturbingly quiet waiting room for a Saturday morning. Even at that early time of the day, he still expected the madness of the night to have spilled over into dawn like tainted water. However, there were only a handful of people who seemed to be waiting for news about their dear ones rather than waiting for treatment. He shook his head as he walked in and tried to locate the reception desk.

Once spotting it, he approached the desk where two nurses were talking in hushed voices as if disturbing the quiet of the room would jinx it somehow. Bucky cleared his throat – his mouth felt full of cotton, tongue stuck to the palate – and one of the nurses turned towards him. He could see the moment she noticed his missing arm, the way her hard green eyes turned soft with pity. Bucky would have sighed in frustration, but he could barely breathe as it was.

"James Barnes for Steve Rogers. I received a call about an hour ago from Lucy, I think?" His hoarse voice echoed harshly in the untroubled room, like a rock hitting the surface of a deep lake. The older nurse stood up and smiled wanly at him.

"Yes, Mr. Barnes. I'm Lucy." She handed him a clipboard. "Mr. Rogers is still with the doctors, but we need some medical information about him. Could you please fill this in? I'll make sure the doctors come and see you as soon as they finish."

"Doctors? As in more than one?"

"It's just the orthopaedic doctor besides the doctor in charge of the case. Nothing to worry about, sir. At the moment, it's crucial we get as much medical information as we can about your friend." She glanced sideways. "The gentleman accompanying Mr. Rogers didn't know much."

Bucky followed her gaze an exceptionally handsome man across the room, who stood up as soon as their eyes met. The guy still looked shook from what must have been a terrible night but apart from an ugly cut on his forehead, which had been carefully stitched, and a rather serious looking bandage on his right forearm, he didn't seem seriously injured. Bucky almost groaned at himself. Obviously, if the man had been seriously injured, then the doctors and the nurses would have ensured that he was properly treated and not wandering around the reception area, waiting for Bucky and his sleep-addled mind.

Bucky thanked the nurses. Realizing that there wasn't much he was going to get from them until he filled out the forms that he'd been given, he took the clipboard and he approached the man. Bucky swallowed hard a few times, trying to gather enough courage to speak with the man without sounding like the pathetic loser that he was sure he seemed to be in this moment. He set the clipboard on the coffee table in front of the secluded seats that the guy had chosen for himself, and faced the man again.

"Sam Wilson," the guy introduced himself and without any hesitation, he extended his left arm so he could properly shake hands with Bucky. His beautiful almond eyes stared back at Bucky, bright and serious, no trace of pity or bafflement over the missing arm. "It's great you managed to get here so fast.”

"James Barnes," Bucky answered, smothering any sense of jealousy, and clasped back the offered hand. An amicable handshake followed. "People call me Bucky,” he added almost as an afterthought.”

"Pleasure to meet you, Bucky, though I wish circumstances were different." Sam let go of his hand and Bucky grabbed the clipboard again. They both sat down in slight uneasiness. “I'm really sorry about this. Thank you for coming. I'm sure it wasn't easy.”

“It's okay, I'm glad I was able to.” Bucky began filling in the forms as he glanced sideways to the man next to him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam smiled softly and waved his hand dismissively. “Minor concussion and an ugly cut. Nothing to fret about so they let me go with a prescription for some painkillers and an advice to watch for any signs of nausea or migraine. It's Steve I'm worried about.”

Bucky's hand tightened on the pen as he cleared his throat before asking, “Could you please tell me what happened?”

“We were coming back from an event – Steve had an exhibition at a gallery in Upper East Side. We were almost home when this lunatic smashed into us.” Sam sighed and scratched at his stubbled chin. “The guy was texting so he wasn't paying attention to his driving and he ran a red light. He hit the driver's side, mostly towards the rear but the impact was still quite hard on Steve's side.”

“Did police arrest the guy?”

“Yeah, I think he's going to be charged with a bunch of things and have his license suspended. I don't know much about it because we were brought here immediately and taken into separate rooms.”

“So no one's mentioned anything about Steve since you've been here?”

“No, man, sorry.” Bucky looked up at Sam, who clenched his jaw before continuing, “They weren't forthcoming with the information as they waited for you to give the all clear. Honestly, I could barely convince Lucy to tell me whether they've contacted Steve's next of kin. I was surprised to hear your name.”

“Me too,” Bucky mumbled sourly, almost as an afterthought, then filled in the rest of the info requested for Steve. He ignored the way his stomach sunk to the floor. He wished he had a bit of water if only to make his throat work properly. “I thought he'd have changed it by now,” he added, not sure why. It wasn't like Sam was going to cast a new light over Steve's thoughts suddenly.

“So, he really doesn't have any other family,” Sam said softly and his face crumbled into the perfect picture of compassion. Jesus, Bucky found himself liking him more and more. There was a general sense of kindness coming in waves from the guy. Bucky could see why Steve chose him as a friend. He tended to find the real nice kind of people and surround himself with them like a comfortable blanket.

“No, no other family.” _Apart from me. Apart from mine_ , Bucky thought. “Well, I think he still has an aunt that lives somewhere in Washington state, but they haven't kept in touch on account of Steve being –” Bucky stopped and bit his cheek as he eyed Sam warily.

“Gay,” Sam filled in the blank and Bucky nodded, a sense of relief washing over him.

“After Sarah, his mom, died we decided that I should act as his next of kin.” Bucky shrugged a little, ears burning in embarrassment, under Sam's sharp scrutiny. “We thought at the time it was a good idea.”

“It was.”

“Not if Steve continued to live in Chicago and something like this happened while he was still there.”

“Luckily, it didn't.” Sam watched as a couple stood up and followed a nurse. “He did miss New York,” Sam said kindly and he leaned back against the chair, making himself a little more comfortable seeing as no doctor was in sight.

Bucky held his breath in the hope that Sam was going to reveal another detail, another small piece of information that he never got a chance to have with Steve so far away and friends split forever. When it was clear though that Sam wasn't going to mention anything else, he stood up and gave back the forms to Lucy, who promised him that the doctor would come and check in with them as soon as they were finished.

Not knowing what to do with himself, aware that he had to stay, Bucky went to the water cooler and drank as much water as he needed. Then, disposing of his cup, he filled in another one and brought it back to Sam, who looked more tired by the minute.

“Thanks, man,” Sam said after he gulped the whole thing in one go.

“Do you need another one?”

“No, thank you. I'm fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, don't worry.” Sam smiled softly as Bucky sat down next to him again. “Steve didn't lie when he said that you were kind.”

“Steve said –”

“Mister Barnes,” Lucy interrupted their conversation and both men stood up, approaching the reception desk immediately. “The doctor would like to talk with you now.”

“Could Sam come too, please?” Bucky asked promptly.

“Yes, that's fine.” Lucy smiled tiredly at them and ushered them into a small and stuffy room where an older doctor was already waiting for them. The guy looked like maybe he should have gone to bed two days ago, his hair in disarray and dark circles under his eyes. But his eyes were bright and clear and Bucky kept his comments to himself because he sure as hell couldn't begin to comprehend this man's tiredness, dealing with the cases he must have been facing each shift.

“Mr. Barnes?” The doctor asked as soon as he saw them come in, closing the file in front of him. At Bucky's nod, the man stood up and offered his hand. “I'm Dr. Reyes.”

“Hello, Dr. Reyes. I'm James Barnes and this is my friend, Sam Wilson.” Dr. Reyes shook hands with both of them and gestured them to have a seat in the cramped space.

“Apologies for the set up. I'm afraid my office is being refurbished and they don't have much additional space that they can offer within the hospital.”

“No problem,” Sam said. Bucky took in a shuddery breath. Sam's calm demeanor soothed Bucky's frayed nerves, enough that he could acknowledge the doctor's words.

“I'll get to the point then. Mr. Rogers' condition is stable but we would like to keep him under observation for a couple of days.” The doctor clasped his hands together and rested his forearms on his thighs. “His injuries, although serious, weren't life-threatening. He did have minor internal bleeding but we managed to stop it and we don't believe there'll be future repercussions. He has a few bruised ribs, cuts and bruises, and a dislocated shoulder.”

“Will he need any surgery for that?” Sam asked as he grabbed Bucky's shoulder and squeezed in reassurance.

“No,” Dr. Reyes answered as he turned on a light panel above his desk and showed them the film of the radiography. “This is Mr. Rogers' shoulder. As you can see here and here,” he pointed out to some vague shades that Bucky was sure were completely meaningless to anyone outside of the medical profession, “due to the impact, the bone did pop out of the shoulder socket. Luckily for us, it did so cleanly, without damaging the tissue or nerves surrounding the shoulder joint. My colleague, Dr. Mathews, who is a great orthopedic doctor, agrees with me. However, he'd like to check in with Mr. Rogers tomorrow when the swelling will go down significantly.”

“Will he need physiotherapy? Or wear a sling?” Bucky asked because, at this point, he had become an expert on the musculoskeletal system. During his recovery, he had read as much as he could about the bone and muscle structures in the upper limbs – it had helped in not being rattled by every medical term that the doctors had been spewing at him every goddamn minute.

“We will determine more tomorrow, but yes, a sling most likely, at least for a couple of weeks, maybe more, it depends. And yes to the physiotherapy as well.” The doctor crossed his arms and looked at them. “All in all, gentlemen, I'd say that Mr. Rogers was quite lucky, taking into account what brought him here. He's still in ICU but we expect him to be relocated by mid-afternoon.”

“Thank you very much, Dr. Reyes,” Bucky said, relief washing over him in soothing waves. As he shook hands with the doctor again, he briefly thought of a roller-coaster ride. With the intensity of the last hour, Bucky was sure this was giving him emotional whiplash. “Could we see him? Just for a few minutes?” Bucky heard himself ask, although it was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

“Yes, but no more than a few minutes. Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson is not listed as –”

“Steve doesn't have any other immediate family, Dr. Reyes,” Bucky interrupted. It was rude of him but he was tired now. The sudden adrenaline rush had finally faded and he felt like he was about to claw his eyes out if they'd turn out to be restrictive with their visiting policy as well. “We are it,” he added for good measure

“When Mr. Rogers is moved upstairs, this won't be an issue,” Dr. Reyes said and sighed. “Okay, I'll make sure the staff is aware and that you gave your permission. A signature might be required.”

“I'm more than happy to do so.”

“Very well, gentlemen. In that case, follow me.”

And as his stomach sunk to a new low, Bucky followed the good doctor and Sam outside the office.

~*~

Bucky followed Sam at a more sedated pace; it felt as if walking was suddenly an action that required thorough thinking, putting one leg in front of the other an uncanny equation to which Bucky couldn't find a solution anymore. His hand was clammy and his stomach was twisting. He was about to see Steve Rogers for the first time in five years and that single thought was the most terrifying prospect he'd been faced with in a while. He stopped following Sam as they reached the doorway and watched the scene through the glass window that offered a clear view of the room and the person laying on the bed, prone and fragile.

Bucky took a deep and shaky breath as he forced himself to look at Steve. His jaw clenched painfully in a pitiful attempt to swallow whole the sob that fought to free itself from the confines of his lips. He couldn't breathe with how much he wanted to get inside the room and touch Steve in that moment, hold his wrist and breathe him in. God, he had missed him so much!

Bucky stared at the unconscious man and couldn't breathe with how much he seemed familiar and strange at the same time. There had been a time when Bucky knew what Steve tasted like, how his feet got cold even during the hottest of summers, how his breath smelled terribly first thing in the morning, and how much indigestion spicy food caused him. There had been a time when Bucky knew Steve Rogers intimately, each bone and sinew, each freckle and each mole – the scent of him, the taste of him, the smoothness of his skin.

And now, in that bed, there laid a stranger, with longer hair and sporting a beard, half of his face bruised and battered, several stitches on display. He was six feet tall and yet looked frail and worn. Bucky's arm longed to wrap gently and protectively around Steve's waist. Bucky wanted to simply breathe him in, and promise him that he was there to protect him. Just as always.

Bucky took a step back and then another. Before he knew it, he was almost running down the brightly lit corridors of ICU, chest clenched tight with panic and hurt. He pressed the button of the elevator and shuddered. It's been so long and yet here he was, still missing Steve Rogers as if he'd never left in the first place, as if there hadn't been five years of solitude and hurt and pain between them, separating them deeper than a chasm.

He pressed the button several times as if begging the elevator to come faster and take him away from Steve, from this past that never seemed to die.

“You're leaving?” Bucky tensed immediately, his shoulders coiled tight to the point he almost couldn't breathe. He turned slightly towards Sam Wilson, expecting accusations and resentment, but finding only friendly and tired eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky croaked, and he had to clear his throat before adding, “Yeah, I am. There's nothing much I can do right now and I'm not sure Steve would like to wake up to my ugly mug.”

“You'd be surprised,” Sam mumbled and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the confusion that Bucky felt spreading in his eyes. “They advised me to go home as well as they don't think that Steve will wake up until later this morning. Man, this has been one crappy night.”

“Do you need a ride?” Bucky offered as the doors of the elevator opened with a soft ping and let them enter. They were the only people in the cart and Bucky almost pouted.

“Nah, man, but thank you. I think I'll stick around for a bit, maybe grab another cup of coffee.” Bucky nodded in answer and steeled himself against Sam's inquisitive eyes. “Look, I know it must have been difficult for you to come here,” he said after a while when it was clear the silence was going to suffocate them both. “So thank you for coming as fast as you did. I'm sure Steve will appreciate that.”

“How long have you guys been back in New York?” Bucky asked because he wasn't sure that saying _I really didn't want to come but the thought of Steve being in pain still hurts me_ wouldn't sound right.

“About a year now,” Sam answered as he watched the numbers of the elevator slowly decreasing. “He's renting an apartment in Dumbo.” Bucky fisted his hand and took another shaky breath. A year. Jesus Christ! Bucky scratched his stubbled cheek in annoyance now.

“Look, Sam,” Bucky began rather harshly, startling the hell out of Sam. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek hard then cleared his voice and said in a much soothing voice, “I need to go now. But I'll come back later this afternoon. Probably. But I need to go.”

“Yes, of course. I understand.” The elevator pinged, startling them. They got out at the main reception area again. “If you don't mind though, could I please have your phone number? Just in case I have issues with getting back into ICU or anything like that.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, I didn't think of that.” Bucky rattled off his phone number as soon as Sam had his cell in his hand then shook hands with the guy and was off before he could find another excuse to stay there until Steve woke up.

Ha, like Steve Rogers, Mr. Stubborn Extraordinaire, was going to appreciate that. Fuck, this morning was turning into a whole different kind of nightmare and it was uncanny how much Buck wanted to go back in there. Savor the sweet torture of it.

Shit.

~*~

Late morning found Bucky unable to sleep so he took Mooney for a walk to the doggy park as Britta watched them leave indifferently. She couldn't care less about where they were going as long as Bucky was back on time for her meal. Otherwise, Bucky was sure those claws would find him in the deepest pit of hell and still manage to leave their mark on him.

Bucky shook his head and glanced at Mooney, who kept on pissing on every bush or lamp post he could find, proud to leave his mark alongside thousands of dogs every day. Bucky nodded to some of the familiar faces, but he mostly kept it to himself, unable to make small conversation in the light of the recent events.

Something hot and bitter simmered low in his belly. Steve looked so small on that hospital bed. What the hell was with hospital beds that they made everyone seemed frailer and smaller? Just like with his father. Or Becca, when she broke her leg two winters ago. There was always a sense of frailty. Or maybe it was just his impression, having spent too much time in hospitals and physiotherapy clinics after his accident.

Deep down inside, the reality of his feelings towards Steve took on a dimension of their own – each song a melodic trip down the memory lane; certain places and certain scents would always remind him of their story, of a joke or an adventure. Bucky had hated and loved those things in equal measure; sometimes the line between the two feelings was blurred. But for all intents and purposes, in spite of the infrequent trips down the memory lane, he had thought that he had buried that common history forever.

His naiveté was less than charming. Bucky huffed on his way back from the park, even scaring a passer-by. He apologized and quickly ducked into a Starbucks to order the sweetest concoction they had on the menu because he needed to treat himself with a healthy dose of sugar before even considering praying for this weekend to be damn over already.

When Bucky returned from his walk with Mooney, Clint was already waiting for him outside the building, sitting down on the stairs with Lucky at his feet, both scruffy-looking and barely awake. Clint was still dressed in his grey pajama bottoms and his favorite purple t-shirt and Bucky just had to shake his head in dismay and chuckle as his friend simply shrugged, looking rather pleased with himself. Clint rubbed his face and gulped some more coffee from an actual coffee mug, one of those themed ones that Nat kept on bringing back for him as a present from every place she traveled due to work.

“You didn't have to come so early,” Bucky said as soon as he came within his hearing range and noticed that Clint adjusted the volume of his hearing aid inconspicuously. Lucky sniffed at Mooney once then settled back; apparently, it was too early for them to engage into their usual antics. Faced with such indifference, Mooney had no other choice than to sit right by his best friend and take a nap in the gentle breeze that stirred amongst the poplar trees. “Also, you're still wearing your pajamas,” he added helpfully.

“Really? I hadn't noticed.” Clint glared briefly at him. “You said that you wanted to speak with me as soon as I'd woken up, asshole.” Clint bumped their knees together rather hard. “You left a message in a serious voice, adding in the mix the long-departed Steve Rogers' name.”

“He's not dead, Clint. Jesus!”

“Technically, I know that. However, one, he did depart, leave, go away, sail off or make himself scarce. Do you want more? 'Cause I got more.” Bucky rolled his eyes but shook his head and pouted. Clint ignored him and carried on, “And two, five years is a pretty long time ago. So again, technically, I did use the expression correctly.” Clint took another sip from his coffee. “Also, as a side note to my awesomeness, Nat loves me and she doesn't make any rude comments about my incredible fashion sense.”

“Sometimes I wonder why.” Bucky looked at his Starbucks concoction, deflated.

“Because I'm amazing in bed.”

“I've got no proof of that.”

“Well, Grumpy-Pants, need I remind you that we did ask you to join us a few times and you said no?”

“Thanks for reminding me of that,” Bucky groaned and gulped half of the coffee left in his cup. Of course, he had been flattered as both Clint and Nat were quite attractive but at the time he didn't feel comfortable about his missing limb and the scars from the surgeries, not to mention the fact that he really didn't want to complicate things with his best friends, who genuinely cared about him.

 

“Puh-lease, I get to lord that over you for as long as I'm alive.” Clint grinned then set aside the cup and scratched Lucky's head. “So, are you going to tell me what happened or am I gonna have to guess it?”

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and then wiped his face, but his thoughts didn't become any clearer.

“Steve moved back to New York,” Bucky said, and ignoring Clint's hiss, he barged on, “Last night he had an accident. Apparently, I was still registered as his next of kin so they contacted me to come to the hospital and sign a bunch of paperwork for him.”

“Which you did.”

“Which I did.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose then made himself more comfortable. He drew his knees to his chest and he rested his chin on them. “They were coming back from an event when a guy that was texting while driving hit them in the rear on the driver's side.”

“They?”

“Steve was accompanied by a man.”

“His boyfriend?”

“No, I think he's just a friend.”

“Is Steve all right?” And this was why, at least partially, Bucky loved Clint with all his heart. He was genuinely a caring person, not one bad bone in his body. He smiled at his friend.

“He's pretty banged up, but he'll recover. Nothing life threatening.”

“And how did you feel seeing him again after five years?”

“Like the sky might crash over me, smothering me for eternity.”

“Wow, tone it down, you big diva.” Clint bumped their shoulders together and rolled his eyes at him. “Dear God, I forgot how dramatic you can be in this sort of situations.”

“Oh really? Look who's talking Mr. _I wore black for three days because the Patriots lost the Super Bowl_.”

“They were this close of winning it, goddamn it! Bunch of losers, I'm telling you.” Clint shook his head then glanced at Bucky. “Really though, what happened after that?”

“I filled in some paperwork and watched Steve through a window like the loser you think I am.”

“I _know_ you are.” Clint grinned unapologetically and then bumped their shoulders together again when Bucky just huffed.

“Then I had a pleasant conversation with Steve's friend – his name's Sam – who was a bit banged up as well. Amongst other things, I found out that Steve has been living in New York for the past year.” Bucky extended his legs again and watched a passer-by across the street absently. There was something solitary in that person's figure. Bucky mumbled, feeling a little lost, “We could have carried on with our lives like this forever and not meet at all.”

“Or meet when you least expected because the world is small when it wants it to be,” Clint replied like a grumpy old man. He scratched Lucky behind his ears then looked dejectedly at his almost empty cup. “Just because you cut all ties, Bucky, it doesn't mean that they stay cut. Anyway, for argument’s sake, you could say that you're not over Steve Rogers as you thought you were.”

“It was just hard to see him after all these years.”

“Did you talk to him?

“No, he was still under the effect of the anesthetic, so I decided to count my blessings and leave before he gets to see me with one arm missing.”

“But his friend did see you.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighed deprecatingly. “Won't this make a wonderful topic of conversation?”

“So I'm assuming that you're going to go and visit him this afternoon. Where's he admitted?”

“University Hospital. Also, why are you assuming that I'm going to visit him when he's wide awake?”

“Because I know you. You're dying to know how he's doing and if he's all right. And now you can go without the shock of seeing him for the first time.”

“You do know,” Bucky groused. “Too well.” He sounded like the grumpy old man that Nat accused him to be every once in a while.

Clint smirked like the cat that ate the canary. “Watch and learn, young padawan, watch and learn.” He ruffled Bucky's hair with such a delight that Bucky couldn't be too annoyed even while he was batting Clint's hands away.

“Enough already! You're only three months older than me, asshole.”

“And don't you forget it.” Clint settled back on his forearms as he closed his eyes and let his face be caressed by the gentle rays of the sun. “You're doing the right thing, Bucky,” his friend said gently, not opening his eyes. Bucky hadn't realized how much he wanted to hear those words until he actually heard them being said. He felt like a doll whose strings had suddenly been cut. He relaxed further and slumped next to Clint. The heat of his friend's body next to him was oddly reassuring.

“You think?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yeah.” Clint opened his eyes and glanced at Bucky. “You once loved each other and cared deeply for one another. That sort of connection never goes away. Besides, in spite of all the differences that set you apart in the end, I think that at the time, due to the circumstances that surrounded you, you were simply two people in love that just couldn't be together.”

“Please, don't tell me that shit with oh, if you're meant to be together, then life will bring you together again sooner or later.”

“Well, theoretically, it did, didn't it?” Clint said. “But I was actually going to say that it's okay to still care for the guy, Bucky. Jesus, you're only human. Stop being so dramatic and just take one step at the time. Maybe one day, you can be friends again.”

“I'm not sure I'd be able to be just friends with Steve. Not anymore.” Bucky bit his lip in frustration. “But thanks for that. I guess I needed to hear it.”

“Hmm,” Clint hummed and stood up again. “So are you going to use your prosthetic?”

“Yeah, I think the guy has already had his shock for today, waking up in a hospital and all.”

“And you're not ready.”

“And I'm not ready for the big reveal. That's for sure.”

“You think he'll respect you any less for that?”

“No, I don't think so.” Bucky shrugged and watched the leaves of the tree across from them. “Steve's been through a lot when he was just a child, so he's got a deep understanding of this sort of thing. But when he sees it, he'll blame himself for not being there for me. And I can't have that. I don't want pity from anybody, least of all from Steve.”

“Then prosthetic it is.” Clint took his mug and drank the last of his coffee. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“Nah, but thanks for the offer.”

“In that case, you owe me another cup of coffee.” Clint grinned, waving his empty cup in front of Bucky.

“Depends.” Bucky narrowed his eyes. “How many did you have already?”

“Just one.”

“Clint.”

“Bucky.” They stared at each other for another minute before Clint finally caved. “Fine, you big asshole, two, and this was my third.”

“I'm making you a decaf,” Bucky said as he stood up as well.

“Come on! Not that shit again!” Clint whined like the more mature, three-months-older man that he was.

“Nat will kill me if you die of a heart attack on my watch.” Bucky opened the door of the building and let the dogs enter first. “So it's decaf or nothing.”

“Fine!” Clint huffed as he followed his friend. “But let it be noted that this is an unusual and cruel punishment and you still owe me the good kind of coffee.”

“Duly noted!”

“I hate you,” he mumbled under his breath.

“No, you don't, you big baby.”

“No, I don't. But I hate your decaf.”

They argued all the way to the second floor where Bucky's apartment, but it was enough for Bucky to forget about Steve Rogers. At least for a few moments.

~*~

Bucky swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He adjusted his prosthetic for what felt like a millionth time to make sure that it looked like he was holding his hand in the pocket of his jeans. For all he knew, this was a futile attempt on his part to hide his disability anyway as Sam might have mentioned something already. _Hey, how come you never told me you went out with a one-armed guy?_ he imagined Sam snickering, although he was pretty sure that Wilson would never say such a cruel thing. He genuinely seemed like a nice guy. These were all Bucky's horrible, good-for-nothing thoughts. Why his brain insisted on being this way, he had no idea.

His hand shook on the handle. He looked down and sideways. No one was coming and the corridor was empty, resounding with the voices of other people in other rooms and echoing unanswered phones. Good, because Bucky would rather be swallowed by a black hole right now than be seen by a stranger looking like he was about to goddamn faint. In a hospital no less. Not the worst place to faint, but still. Jesus Christ, he needed a break.

He checked the number again. Yes, it was 325, just like the other ten times he checked and just like the nurse at the reception desk said. Twice. Bucky huffed and in one mad bout of courage, turned the handle and opened the door.

The nurse at the desk informed him that Steve wasn't sharing the room with anyone at the moment, but they couldn't say how long the situation would continue to be so fortunate.

Bucky stood there, in the doorway, hand still on the handle and watched Steve Rogers napping. Sweet Mary and Joseph and all the other saints in all creation! He'd forgotten how positively handsome Steve Rogers was. Faced with the sudden urge to run in the opposite direction (he would have hit a wall, but who cared?), Bucky clenched his teeth and closed the door behind him with as little sound as possible.

He tightened his fist as he dared to take a few steps inside the quiet room. It felt like the outside world melted away behind the closed door, plunging them into a deep and quiet sea. There was a deep frown marring Steve's bruised and stitched forehead. Bucky wondered whether he was in much pain. Bucky remembered so vividly how it had been to be Steve's point of focus, how Steve had always looked at him, how his beautiful eyes would pierce right into him and see the deepest and darkest corners of Bucky's soul. He had never had anyone know him so intimately, so completely, and he hadn't dared show that side of himself to anyone ever again.

But Steve took his fill time and time again like he was going to paint Bucky forever, his sole subject, his sole muse. People had complained about the intensity of their relationship, the way they seemed to consume each other at times, and Clint had even asked him once or twice whether being so in love was exhausting. But it wasn't. It was a fire that burned endlessly.

Bucky could still remember those Sunday mornings when they used to sit in bed till noon, eating breakfast and talking about anything and everything. And those eyes appeared to offer every secret and every tragedy and every bit of happiness. Bucky had greedily taken his fill and generously given back just as much.

But it hadn't been fucking enough, had it?

His undershirt clung on his back. It was clammy and sticky and goddamn it, he seriously needed to leave if he was going to be so goddamn pathetic about the whole situation. He was about to do just that when those long eyelashes – curled and thick, just perfect for those beautiful baby blue eyes – fluttered open. Steve blinked, looking confusedly around the room until he focused on Bucky.

Supernovas were dimmer than Steve's eyes in that moment and Bucky felt humbled and baffled in equal measure.

“Bucky?”

 


	3. Chapter Three

“Bucky...”

How sweet his name sounded on those lips that once had been so beloved, so familiar and so damningly wonderful. Bucky swallowed thickly as he took a few more steps in, the door no longer a viable option of escape. He approached the bed hesitantly.

The first time they kissed, it had been snowing. The streets had been silent, like they were the last people on Earth. They were walking home through the campus in comfortable silence, holding hands. Steve turned to him to say something but he stopped – his eyes softened, his lips curled into a lovely smile. Bucky still remembered the ridiculous hat Steve had been sporting, the ugly muffler, his fingers still splashed in colours. He remembered the soft touch, cold and new, so lovely: the gentle way Steve's fingers cupped his cheeks, how his thumbs caressed Bucky's cheekbones as he pressed in for a second kiss, this time more searing, more probing. It made Bucky dizzy with want. He grabbed fistfuls of Steve's coat, and held on and on and on.

Bucky shook his head and cleared his voice. “Hey, Steve,” he said, the bitter-sweet taste of saying hello to a stranger that he once loved sharp on his tongue.

A shadow fell over Steve's blue eyes – a summer sky during a storm – and he too needed a bit of time to compose himself again. His bruised knuckles whitened on the immaculate sheet.

“Sam said,” Steve began hesitantly, and he licked his lips, “that you came and signed all the necessary documents. I thought – I don't know what I thought.”

“I was still listed as your next of kin so they called me. To come in.”

“Sorry about that.” Steve bowed his head and looked down, a gentle blush spreading over his pale cheeks. Bucky ached with the familiarity of it. “I'd completely forgotten about that, to tell you the truth. I would've changed it sooner.”

“It's fine, Steve. I don't mind.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and bit his lips again. “I'm glad I could help. How are you feeling?”

“Like I was hit by a car.” Steve looked up again at him with half of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He still couldn't resist being a little shit; some things never changed. That tiny curl of his lips still gave Steve that boyish look that made him look so innocent and got him out of so much trouble.

“Yeah, I guess I walked right into that one.” Bucky's smile was strained. “But seriously, how are you feeling?”

“Good, taking into consideration everything that has happened. My shoulder still hurts like hell and my head's no better, but all in all, I was lucky.” Steve winced as he squirmed in a futile attempt to make himself more comfortable. “Honestly, I dread more the bureaucratic hell that's about to follow, dealing with the health insurance company and the police, rather than the physio and the pills I've got to take.”

“Glad to see you've got your priorities straight.” Bucky's lips attempted feebly to curl into a pale resemblance of a smile but by the way Steve's face turned more serious and darker, it was clear he wasn't making a very good job out of it.

“How have you been, Buck?”

Bucky shrugged and switched the weight of his body from one leg to the other.

“I'm good. I managed to get my license as a professional engineer and I still work for Black Panther.”

“Oh, Buck, that's great! Good for you. I always knew you'd make a fine engineer one day.”

“Thanks. What about you?” Bucky bit the insides of his cheek hard, trying to hide the resentment behind the small talk. “Sam mentioned something about you renting an apartment in Dumbo.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded flat, devoid of any actual interest.

“Yeah, I moved at the end of March last year.” Steve swallowed thickly as he peered at Bucky through his thick eyelashes. “I was gonna mention something to you, but I wasn't sure whether you still had the same phone number and I didn't think your parents were going to be too happy hearing from me.” Steve almost shrugged but abstained at the last minute. “Besides, I wasn't even sure you wanted to hear from me anyway.”

“You could have written a letter. You're pretty good at that.” Bucky face-palmed as Steve flinched at the harsh words. “Sorry! Fuck, I didn't mean that. Sorry, sorry. The last thing you need right now is me acting like a dickhead.”

“No, Bucky, it's okay. I kind of deserved that.”

“No, Steve, you really didn't. You've just come out on the other side of a pretty bad accident, you're in pain and here I am, being a pain in the ass.” Bucky rubbed at his face tiredly. He really should have napped or something before coming here. “I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Buck, please, don't apologize. It's okay.”

An awkward and terrible silence spread between them. The door was abjectly tempting to Bucky – just open it and leave and never look back at Steve and his wonderful blue eyes and his bruised goddamn face and those shoulders larger than life. Jesus Christ, they'd been together seven fucking years. Seven fucking years of planning the future together and going through so much shit and here they were now: two strangers that once knew each other and still Bucky couldn't bear to stand there and not touch Steve. Five years apart and he still couldn't comprehend how all that had gone down the drain.

“How are your folks? All good?” Steve asked after a while, voice a little hoarse, like he had drunk something too sweet too quick.

“Yeah. Well, dad had a minor cardiac event last spring. He scared us a little, but he's fine now.”

“Oh, Buck! Is he all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, he's on blood thinners, beta blockers, and apparently, he should pay more attention to his diet.”

“I bet he loved that.”

“Yeah, let's just say he and mom are constantly discussing types of salt and all the other spices in between.” Bucky rolled his eyes affectionately. “We've all become experts at the nutritional value of certain types of foods and so many other things – it's becoming tiresome.”

“And Becca?”

“She's just announced a couple of days ago at dinner that she's the new recipient of the Stark Fellowship at the Met.” Pride poured through every pore of Bucky's.

“Oh, wow, Buck, that's amazing! Congratulations!”

“Thank you. She's going to be doing art conservation or restoration or whatever the hell she decides to stick with in the end.”

“Good. That's good.” Steve smiled tiredly at Bucky. “I'm glad to hear that everyone's fine.”

“And you? How's been being back in New York?”

“I think I didn't realize how much I missed the city until I actually moved back here. Although Chicago is a great city, it's just not the same.”

“Sam mentioned that you had an exhibition?”

“Yeah,” Steve ducked his head, smiling a little hesitantly, “I've got a few paintings at Half Gallery in Upper East Side along with other emerging artists. Three of them have been chosen for a next-year exhibition at MOMA.”

“Congratulations, Steve! I know how much you worked for that. I guess the starving artist thing is just a myth after all.”

“No, no, there's definitely some truth in there.” They both smiled at each other, an old joke that still had meaning for the both of them. In Bucky's opinion, Steve had always been a brilliant artist – he liked to dabble in everything related to art, from writing newspaper articles for up and coming new galleries or artists to teaching art, while creating his own work with such a passion that at times, Bucky had felt intimidated.

“I'm glad to hear you're doing well for yourself, Steve.” Bucky glanced longingly at the door behind him. “Uhm, I've got to go now.”

“Oh...” Bucky didn't think he simply imagined Steve's disappointed look.

“I can come back tomorrow if you'd like that.” Bucky winced at the hesitant way in which the words sounded as if he'd rather be dipped in boiling water than return there. “Is there anything I should bring for you? Anything at all?”

“No, thank you, Buck.” The smiled dimmed. “I've got everything I need and Sam's going to bring some of my stuff later on today.”

“That's great. But please, let me know if you need anything.” Bucky added quickly before he changed his mind, “I still have the same phone number.”

“Okay, I will.” Steve watched him intently as he said softly, “See you tomorrow, Buck. And thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. See you tomorrow.” Bucky waved awkwardly like the moron that he was and quickly made a dash out of Steve's room before he was going to come up with another bad idea.

As soon as he shut the door, he leaned against it and took a deep breath, wondering briefly if it really was a good idea to come back tomorrow and have another conversation with Steve when so many memories tended to come out. Memories he had fought long and hard to bury deep inside of him. He looked down at his prosthetic – if he managed to keep the charade tomorrow as well, then it was all good. He'd be back at work on Monday and tackle the issue with his current project and then he and Steve would get back to their own separate lives.

Bucky began to walk slowly towards the reception area and the elevators. Yeah, right. Who was he kidding? This was going to end in disaster.

~*~

By the time Bucky made it at home, it was early evening. He sighed in relief as soon as the door shut behind him. He locked it properly then set the keys on the small table – he bought it for this purpose specifically to make sure he wouldn't chase his keys like a lunatic every morning. He took his wallet out as well and placed it next to the keys. Then he bent down to scratch and pat Mooney, who demanded attention, although it was clear by now that Katie, his dog walker, had been around and had managed to take Mooney out on his usual afternoon walk. From the living room, Britta's eyes glimmered intelligently. She was perched on her seat next to the window and she didn't seem like she wanted to move from there any time soon. Bucky sighed again as he accepted Mooney's wet kisses then went to the bedroom to quickly take a shower and change his clothes.

He turned on the lamp on his nightstand and pulled the curtains. First thing's first though – he had to take the prosthetic out and massage his stump a little because it kind of hurt having it around today. He forgot how heavy it was and how much of his energy went into maintaining a good position and a good balance of his body when he wore it. In the beginning, the tedious routine of it had gnawed at him – the routine of putting the sock on over his stump, then the prosthetic, then the rubber sleeve that kept everything in place. During that time, the possibilities of his new life had appeared to be so limited that Bucky had asked himself (and his therapist for that matter) what the point of living in such a way was if there wasn't any light at the end of the tunnel.

But the reality was much more complex than that. Bucky had wondered many times what would have happened with him, had it not been for the support of his family and friends. Also, the financial means and the incredible luck of working for an amazing company such as Black Panther had helped a great deal.

Under the spray of the shower, Bucky could breathe at last. He had been living with this disability for so long that he had almost forgotten how many adjustments he had made to his life, how many investments and the prioritization of some items over others had to take place in order for his life to be slightly more comfortable. From simple tasks like brushing his teeth and changing his clothes to much more complex ones like driving a car and working with complex engineering programs.

Bucky dried himself and grabbed a fresh pair of clothes: a comfortable pair of sweats and a t-shirt. There was a wild poetry to the fluidity with which he used every single adaptation done to his apartment. He padded back into the kitchen and ordered a pizza and some garlic bread as he was too tired to make anything for himself. He pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge and went to the living room. Britta was still where he left her and Mooney was napping on the couch. Bucky settled quietly next to him and turned on the TV, switching to Netflix and choosing a show he had meant to watch for some time.

He mindlessly watched TV for a while, but the piano in the corner of the room stood like a ghost from a past life that still haunted him from time to time. It was a small upright piano that had seen many failed attempts on his part to garner the same dexterity he had possessed before the accident. He stared blandly at it. There was one melody in particular that he had craved to play again and he had ordered a few books online to teach himself to play piano again one-handed.

“Forget me not,” Bucky whispered out loud without even realizing. His mouth crumpled in unhappiness. It had been Steve's favorite piano piece – Bucky hadn't been a serious student of the piano, but along the years he had managed to keep up his skills and become a decent player. Steve had discovered Lichner's composition when one of his friends at work had played it and he had begged Bucky to learn it.

The buzzer of the intercom startled him so badly that he could hear his heart beating inside his chest. He went to open for the pizza guy on shaky legs, chest clenched tight. When he returned, he set the pizza on the coffee table and took the garlic bread in the kitchen to be consumed later on. When he returned with some tissues, Mooney was already nosing at the cardboard box with a curious sniff.

“Don't even think about it, pal.” Bucky pushed Mooney away and sat down in front of the TV again, this time munching happily on his favorite pizza.

There had been so many accommodations that had been required to his new life. The piano could be taken for a sign that an able-bodied person lived there but the books in the crowded bookcase opposite the piano gave more telling clues. Amongst the sci-fi paperbacks and non-fiction literature, amongst the engineering and mathematics books, there were quite a few books of one-handed variety titles. In the beginning, Bucky had hated them, but now he was grateful for each one of them. They had been just another adjustment in a series of accommodations that his needs demanded.

His cupboards, including his closet, were filled with Lazy Susan's of all varieties. Everything had to be easily opened and closed. In the kitchen, a retractable tray had been built in specifically for him and most of his knives had been adjusted accordingly to his needs. Clint and Natasha, in particular, had been keen to keep up with the most uncanny gadgets like roller knives and one-handed can openers – though to be fair, Bucky had been extremely grateful to Natasha when she had provided him with a very futuristic one-hand keyboard, which had done wonders not only to his self-esteem, but to his pride in his own work too.

It had been difficult to make adjustments to his wardrobe and personal hygiene habits. The thought of letting someone close enough to be privy to his daily struggles was excruciating. Bucky was man enough to admit that his mom had valid reasons to worry about him and his love life, but for the life of him, he couldn't find in him the strength to let anyone in. He had his friends and his family. He had Britta and Mooney and his work and that was enough.

As he took another pizza slice, he tried to ignore the thought of Steve and his kind blue eyes. The time for them had long since passed.

~*~

The following day, Bucky decided that it was better to see Steve during the late morning visiting hours rather than wait until the afternoon. It wasn't just because he was better rested, mind clear, and therefore slightly more prepared to see his ex. It was also because he couldn't fathom the idea of waiting around until later in the afternoon to see whether Steve was feeling better. He'd go insane anticipating each line of discussion, what he'd say or do.

That meant careful planning as well. He chose a dark blue sweater, a little wider for his lithe frame, but enough to cover the prosthetic arm perfectly. He really didn't want to think about the fact that by then Sam might have already remarked upon it and thus cluing Steve in on the biggest trauma that Bucky had experienced in his life. He also managed to tame his unruly hair by using some product that made it look less like a wild mane and more like a mature kind of hairstyle.

Since his accident, Bucky had kept his hair short to avoid the nightmare of taking care of long hair with just one arm. Shaving had been slightly less difficult but due to the fact that he had a lot of meetings with potential clients of the company, not to mention the periodical meetings with his colleagues and Nick Fury – who still acted like a mentor to Bucky – he had to keep his grooming to a pretty high standard. So it was less of a full beard and more of a five o'clock shadow at the most.

When he checked himself into the mirror before leaving, he smiled softly into the reflecting surface, trying to ignore the light flutter in his stomach. There was no point into thinking about what Steve might think of him. On the way to the hospital, he stopped and bought newspapers, a few snacks for Steve, and another coffee for himself – his addiction to the godly brew wasn't as serious as Clint's, who once drank a whole pot in under half an hour.

By the time he reached the hospital, Bucky had managed to finish the second cup of coffee and come to the conclusion that his stay was going to be brief and perfectly friendly without him being easily annoyed like yesterday. No acid remarks, no mentions of the past. He'd do his duty and be out in ten minutes tops.

Steve's warm smile put an end to such perfectly reasonable expectations immediately.

“Hey, Buck, nice to see you again.”

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled, still surprised. “You look much better today.”

“I feel much better today.” Steve smiled warmly again. Bucky barely dared to look at him as he managed to put the plastic bag on the little cupboard next to the hospital bed. Indeed, Steve looked better that morning. Gone was the paleness of his cheeks. His eyes looked bright and clear. His hair was carefully combed and he even smelled nice. Had it not been for the bruises and the arm still in a sling, Bucky would have wondered what he was doing there in the first place.

“Glad to hear it, pal,” Bucky said kindly at last.

“What you got there for me, Buck?”

“Well, I bought you some newspapers – thought you might go insane without your Times and Post. And some snacks, though I'm not sure whether you're allowed those.”

“I don't think there'll be a problem. I'm not on any medication that might stop me from eating certain things.” His beautiful eyes crinkled at the edges. “But thanks for the newspapers. It's definitely boring around here and there's only so much social media I can take.”

“What? You finally managed to get a Facebook account?”

“Nope. Still just Instagram. Though Sam's trying to get me into Snapchat.”

“Oh, no, pal, don't go down that route. Becca has one of those – she drove me insane with it for a while.”

“Oh, I see. Highly addictive?”

“You've got no clue. Stay away from it.”

“I will.”

“But seriously, how are you feeling?” Bucky asked softly and Steve shrugged with his healthy shoulder.

“I'm still sore. My bruised ribs definitely don't help the situation. I had to sleep last night mostly standing up like this. But the shoulder is less swollen and the doctors plan on getting me out of here tomorrow afternoon.”

“That's good news.”

“Yeah, it really is.”

“Is Sam going to come and pick you up?” Bucky asked while taking out the newspapers and giving them to Steve. “I mean, I'm working tomorrow but I could maybe take half a day off and –”

“No, Buck, thank you for the offer, but don't worry about it.” Steve's eyes watched him tense. “Sam's going to pick me up and sign for anything. I don't want to impose on you. You've done more than enough as it is. More than I deserve, anyway.”

Bucky didn't realize how much Steve's words had irritated him until his knuckles turned white on the bag and he almost dropped it to the floor. It was irrational to get so annoyed but they burned like acid down his throat. Did Steve really think that he'd let him lie in the hospital without even checking up on him? What did he mean when he said it was more than he deserved?

“Buck.” Steve's voice sounded unbelievably kind, which made the things only worse.

“Steve.”

“Why are you mad?”

“I'm not mad,” he said, biting his lip. He gripped the end of the plastic bag and tightened his fist on it as he gently lowered it on the nightstand again.

“Yes, you are. What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong,” he snapped and sighed exasperated. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” God, he was so fucking stupid sometimes! Why was he being so dramatic? Because deep down, he'd wanted Steve to ask him to help him get home tomorrow. He'd wanted more time with Steve and that was even more absurd than his sudden anger. “I'm sorry,” he said softly again and dared to look back at Steve. “I thought that it was going to be easier seeing you today.”

“But it isn't.” Steve nodded in understanding.

“No, it isn't.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, forgetting all about the product and his initial intent. “I see you and I forget for a moment that it's been five years. Five years since the last time I saw you. But then you say something and all of a sudden I can't get it out of my head that you've been in New York for the past year.”

“Bucky, I –”

“Don't get me wrong, Steve. I'm happy to help. I'm glad I could be here for you,” Bucky barged on. “But had it not been for this accident, I don't think I would have ever seen you again. Am I right?”

“Buck, I didn't think I had the right anymore.”

“I know, I know.” Bucky stared back into Steve's eyes. “But it doesn't make any of this any less painful.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. These are my hang-ups, not yours.” Bucky shrugged and added, “I think I'd better go now.”

“No, Bucky, please, come on,” Steve pleaded as Bucky stared at a dot above his still-healing shoulder. “Maybe we can catch up or talk about something else. Anything at all.”

“I'm sorry.” Bucky shook his head and watched Steve's whole face crumple in unhappiness. He fisted his hand, digging his blunt nails in the meat of his palm to – he wanted to touch Steve so much, to caress those cheekbones, to press his forehead against his. But he wasn't allowed anymore. Nothing seemed to be allowed anymore. “If there's anything else you need from me, please let me know. But I think I should leave.”

“Of course, Bucky. I understand.” Steve's lips curled into a pale imitation of a smile, his blue eyes regretful and longing.

“Take care of yourself, Steve.” His voice shook with all the pent-up emotion. It sounded so much like a goodbye but Bucky didn't feel like he'd be able to face all those roaring feelings right then and Steve appeared to understand. Just like always.

“I will.”

Bucky couldn't remember getting into the visitors' car park. He couldn't even remember unlocking the car and getting inside of it. But he was aware of himself when he slammed the steering wheel a few times, furious at himself and at the entire situation. It took him almost half an hour to compose himself enough to be able to drive away.

~*~

“I don't understand why always have to eat at a restaurant that Becca chooses,” he grumbled like an old man a few days later as he sat at a secluded table in _D'Annunzios_. He had come straight from work so he was still wearing his work clothes, the left sleeve of his grey shirt pinned neatly. His pressed slacks looked elegant and the vest he was wearing on top of his shirt gave him the air of a college professor. Bucky had to admit that sometimes he was dressing like the old man his friends accused him of being.

“Because we're celebrating my achievements, moron,” Becca said and hit him hard under the table.

“Ow!” Bucky leaned forward a little, chest pressing against the table, as he massaged his shin. “Jesus, you don't have to be so violent, Becca. Also, I'm gonna tell mom, see how you like it when she's going to scold you for being extra-violent to your poor brother.”

“Wow, the mom card! How mature of you, dear brother of mine. I can't believe you're almost forty and still ready to run along to mom and snitch on me.”

“I'm not near forty, thank you very much.” Bucky scowled at her. “I've just turned thirty-five –”

“– which is the same as saying you're almost forty,” Becca overlapped him.

“– and you're the snitch of the family, little sis. Or did you forget the great debacle of 2009?”

“Hey, that was entirely your fault!”

“I'm sorry, did we just take out a bunch of ten-year-olds for dinner?” Natasha interrupted their scowling match. “No wonder Winnie looks exhausted after every dinner with you two if she has to listen to you exchange jabs every goddamn minute. Also, Bucky, for the record, a couple of months ago, we went to that Greek restaurant that _you_ chose and we all got food poisoning.”

“It happened _once,_ ” he hissed, not ready to give up the fight without even trying.

“Once too many.” Natasha waved her hand dismissively. “If I never have to eat Greek food in my life again, it will be too soon. Anyway, you lost your prerogative of choosing the restaurant with that bad choice, so we're always going to eat wherever we want as long as you didn't choose the place.”

“That's not fair!”

“Oh please, you know as well as we do that you love the food here anyway, so stop complaining like an overgrown child and choose what you want to eat.”

“I feel personally attacked right now.”

“You should. I _did_ personally attack you.”

“Aren't you going to defend my honor?” Bucky glared at Clint, who hid behind his menu.

“You don't have any honor left to defend,” his friend mumbled.

“Actually, he has too much honor,” Becca piped from behind her menu, ignoring Bucky's exasperated sigh.

“Did we come here to celebrate your achievement or to mock me?”

“We can do both, dear brother of mine.” Becca grinned like a shark and Clint tried to hide his laugh behind a terribly orchestrated cough, failing spectacularly. Natasha just shook her head at them both with the same exasperation that their mom must have felt each time they were going at it again.

“Seriously though,” Natasha said after the waiter took their order for their drinks, “I'm glad that we managed to go out for dinner tonight. We've got much to celebrate. Becca and her genius, and also the possibility of visiting the Met every time we feel like it.”

“I'll try but can't promise you anything.”

“Bucky and his first project as a professional engineer. Clint and his first finished project.”

“And you winning the San Francisco Annual Dance Gala,” Clint said proudly and kissed his wife briefly. The pair of dancers that Nat had trained for the past year had earned their first gold medal and she couldn't be more proud. “We're pretty good for a bunch of losers. Well, except the girls. You ladies were never losers. It was just me and this other loser.”

“Hey, who are you calling a loser?” Bucky glared at his best friend as the waiter brought their drinks and they ordered their food. He waited for everyone to have their drinks in their hands and then said, “To Becca for being awesome and stubborn and for always fighting for her dreams. We are very proud of you, little sis.”

“Thank you,” she answered, her eyes wet, as they clinked the glasses and each took a sip from their beverage.

“And to all of our achievements,” Nat added. “May the worst times of our future lives be like today.”

“I'll drink for that.” They took a sip again then put their glasses down.

“Bucky?” The familiar voice made Bucky be glad that he had managed to put down his drink back on the table. He slightly turned on his chair to see Sam and another guy approaching their table. “Hey, man,” Sam said as soon as they were within hearing range. Bucky stood up and shook hands with him. “I thought it might be you.”

“Hey, Sam. How are you doing?” Bucky briefly glanced around to see whether Steve was with them, throat dry, but his ex wasn't around. Bucky swallowed hard. He wasn't sure whether the tight clenching of his chest was because he was glad or disappointed.

“Good, I'm good.” Sam smiled as he slightly turned towards the other man. “This is my partner, Riley.”

“Hey, nice to meet you,” Riley said with the same friendly smile as Sam, albeit a little dimmer. He was just as tall as Sam and a bit wider in his shoulders. His smile revealed a small gap between his front teeth, which made him all the more endearing.

“Nice to meet you too.” Bucky gestured at the people at the table. “These are my friends Clint and Natasha, and this is my sister, Rebecca.” They all waved at each other in companionable _nice to meet you_ s and smiles. “Would you like to join us?” Bucky invited them half-heartedly.

“No, no, thank you,” Sam said quickly. “We just finished ourselves. Actually, we wouldn't have bothered you at all but this one here wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Bucky repeated uncomprehendingly as he turned his attention towards Riley.

“Yes, of course. Thank you for taking care of Sam and Steve at the hospital when I couldn't be there in the first place,” Riley said kindly but Bucky felt his back stiffen when both Becca and Nat's eyes suddenly turned to him. On the other hand, Clint pretended there was something utterly interesting on the menu. “I'm an airline pilot so I was on my way to Chicago when the accident occurred.”

“There's no need to thank me,” Bucky replied quickly as he tried to appease the other man. “I'm just glad I could help.”

“Well, thank you for that.”

“You're welcome, I guess.” Bucky turned to Sam who watched him pensively. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I'll get the stitches out at the end of the week, but all in all, I'm doing okay.”

“And Steve?” Bucky asked a little hesitantly.

“Well, he's been out of the hospital for the past two days and being a pain in the ass already.”

“Like he usually is, I bet.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded at the others. “Well, it was nice to meet you, guys, but we'd better get going.” He shook hands with Bucky again while he put the other hand on the small back of his partner. “It was nice seeing you again. Take care.”

“Thanks again, Bucky,” Riley added as he too took Bucky's hand and shook it without even missing a beat at his missing arm. “See you around.”

“No need for thanks. See ya.”

The thunderous silence that suddenly descended at the table after the two men left was only interrupted by the waiter, who brought their food. Bucky stared back at his plate, suddenly not hungry anymore because he knew what he was about to hear if Nat's stormy eyes were anything to go by.

“Bucky, was Sam talking about Steve Rogers?” Nat asked deceptively calm as she took a bite from her roast.

“Oh, wow, here we go.” Bucky pushed his plate away and stared at his friend, who didn't budge at all under his heavy gaze. “He had an accident, Nat. That's all. He had an accident and I was still listed as his next of kin so they called me in. Nothing else.”

“And you knew about this?” Nat turned towards her husband, who winced slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Don't pick on him like you always do,” Bucky intervened when it was clear that Nat wasn't going to easily swallow her husband's answer. “I asked him not to mention anything. And besides, it's nobody's business what's going on between me and Steve.”

“Is Steve all right?” Becca asked softly.

“Yeah.” Bucky gritted his teeth. He told them briefly what's been going on since he received that fateful call on Saturday morning. “So all in all, he's been released from the hospital and most likely, he's going to change his next of kin and that's all. We don't need to make a bigger issue out of it than it is.”

“Bucky, it's not that simple though, is it?” Nat said a little softer as her dark eyes took in Bucky's slumped form. “We all know how much you loved Steve and how much your separation affected you. Believe me when I tell you that none of us here think that seeing him again after so many years has been easy for you.”

“I didn't say it was easy. But it wasn't that bad either.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and he leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table. “It was difficult as hell and sometimes being civil to him was hard. But I don't think I should act like Steve was a monster. And nobody should, for that matter. He was going through a rough time back then and it wasn't easy on him either.”

“I never thought I'd hear you excuse his leaving,” Nat tossed back with clear precision and Bucky almost recoiled at the roughness of her mockery.

“Just because you heard my side of the story, Nat, it doesn't mean you get to see the whole picture,” Bucky said, voice flat, unable to tolerate this discussion much longer. He had predicted this sort of thing happening from the very beginning – this had been the very reason why he had told Clint not to mention anything to his wife. “At the end of the day, you weren't the one involved in a relationship with him and you weren't the one who got to know him for seven years. The way he left doesn't negate the fact that he was going through a rough time back then. It wasn't just his mother's death. It was everything. And no one, absolutely no one, has the right to judge him for that.”

“You do you, Bucky.” Nat pursed her lips and tilted her head appraisingly. “But don't expect me to be happy that all of a sudden, Steve Rogers is back in your life.”

“First of all, you can hardly call this getting back in my life.” Bucky rolled his eyes, exasperated. “And second of all, if that ever happens, Nat, it's going to be on _my_ terms. But good to know I'd have to hide from you like I knew I should in the first place.” Nat actually flinched and her face darkened further as she set her napkin on the table and pushed the plate away from her.

“So is this how things are going to be from now on?”

“You mean stupid?” Bucky bit back because he couldn't help himself. “Because it seems rather stupid to me that we're arguing about something that's not going to happen. Steve has lived for the past year in New York and he hasn't attempted to contact me or try to meet with me. I promise you that things aren't about to change overnight.” Bucky massaged his right temple in a futile attempt to stave off the migraine that he felt coming. “Can we just please order dessert and celebrate Becca and not talk about Steve Rogers for five goddamn minutes?”

“Fine, but don't think this discussion is over,” Nat said and opened the menu again. Bucky took a shuddery inhale, trying to calm down, and glanced at Becca, who had watched the entire exchange with a pensive look on her face. Bucky grabbed her hand and squeezed gently. Her smile was dim but she squeezed back and that let him know that she wasn't backing down from a discussion about Steve either.

Later on though, when Bucky was dropping her home, Becca wasn't as vocal as Nat in her attempt at talking about Steve, probably because she knew Bucky a little bit better than Nat and had a little more insight into the story than any of his other friends.

“You think mom is going to be displeased,” she observed quietly as she watched the light traffic ahead of them.

“No, I think she'll be mostly worried,” Bucky replied softly. “For both of us.”

“And dad?”

“He always told me to follow my heart, so I don't think he'd say anything.” Bucky shrugged in the darkness of the car as he focused his attention on driving. “I think we're getting ahead of ourselves anyway. I don't think Steve wants me in his life as much as you and Nat and everyone else seem to think.”

“But you'd like that.”

“No. Maybe.” Bucky huffed exasperated at himself. “I don't fucking know. It felt good to see him but I get so easily annoyed when I'm around him. I don't think I'd be a good friend to him.”

“Maybe it'd help being around him again.” She turned slightly towards him. “I think both of you are in need of healing. By the sound of it, he wasn't displeased to see you, Bucky.”

“But he doesn't know I'm missing an arm.”

“What?” Becca fully turned to him now, her mouth slightly opened. “What the hell do you mean he doesn't know about your arm?”

“When I saw him in ICU, I stayed outside the room and he was completely knocked out anyway. The other two times, I wore my prosthetic and I made it look like I kept my hand in my pocket the whole time.”

“But Sam didn't seem shocked to see you with your sleeve pinned.”

“Because he did see me without it when I came that morning they called me.” Bucky bit his lip and glanced sideways at his sister, who was frowning. “I don't think Sam mentioned anything to him. Not yet anyway.”

“Oh, wow, Buck, seriously?”

“I just didn't feel like adding this to his shock of seeing me again after so many years.”

“And you don't want him to pity you.”

Bucky's stomach twisted at the thought. Becca had understood immediately. “Yeah, that too.”

Becca nodded in answer but didn't say anything else, letting the radio softly conquer the silence between them for a while.

“It's Steve we're talking about here, Bucky,” she said after a while when they were close to her apartment block. “He had so many health issues when he was little. Remember those pictures of him when he was so skinny? Steve would never judge you. He would never pity you or make gross remarks. I don't think he's changed that much.”

“I don't think so either.” Bucky watched the light traffic turn red and stopped the car. He briefly glanced at his sister again and bit his lip because he didn't know what to say. He wanted to be whole for Steve forever. He wanted to be that same man that Steve had left five years ago because accepting the alternative was painful to think about.

“Bucky, Sam knows. That means that sooner or later, he'll make a comment to Steve. It's bound to happen.”

“Maybe, but I'd rather it happened like that.” Bucky started the engine again when the light turned green. “Besides, I don't understand why all of you operate under the impression that Steve cares about what I'm doing or that he'd like to have me back in his life.”

“Seriously?” Bucky stopped the engine in front of Becca's building and turned towards his sister. Her blue eyes burned with righteous fury. “I know as well as you do, big brother, that Steve didn't leave because he loved you any less. It was a multitude of factors that lead to all of that. As you said, he was going through a rough period of his life and while I'm not happy with the way he left you and the fact that it happened just a few short months before your accident, I don't have the heart in me to condemn him. So please, let me be clear that if you chose to have Steve back in your life, I wouldn't blame you in any way. However, be prepared to see more blow-outs like Nat's.”

“What would I do without you, Becca?” He leaned forward and pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he mumbled softly.

“I'll always have your back, bro.” Becca hugged him tighter. “You do whatever it feels right for you, Bucky. But whether you want to have Steve in your life again or shun him forever, please do it for the right reason. Do it for the way _you_ think and feel and not for whatever other people say.”

Bucky buried his head into his sister's bony shoulder, heart unexpectedly heavy. He wasn't even sure whether he was going to see Steve any time soon, though he longed to check up on him and make sure he was properly taking care of himself, something Steve never excelled at. But it was good that he had Becca on his side and for now, that was all that mattered.

 


	4. Chapter Four

When his phone rang a week later, while he was in a meeting with a few colleagues and Mr. Fury, Bucky excused himself and took it outside under the watchful gaze of his mentor.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Bucky.” Steve's voice sounded warm and rich, like a good scotch on a winter night. Bucky blinked several times, his hand suddenly turning clammy. His phone slipped twice before he managed to get a good grip on it. He took a few steps further from the meeting room and decided it was best to hide behind a potted plant closer to the copy room.

“Hey, Steve,” he managed to say at last, having swallowed hard several times. “How are you? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, Buck. Please, don't worry. I'm fine. Ribs still sore and the shoulder is even more sore but, all in all, I'm doing good.”

“That's – uhm, that's good.” Bucky bit his lip hard and looked around him to make sure that he was still alone. Everyone who passed him by seemed to be too engrossed in their own thoughts or work to even care about his phone call. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, Bucky, thank you. I'm fine – I mean, I don't need anything.” Steve paused for a moment as if he was unsure why he made this call in the first place. Bucky listened to him breathe on the other end of the line and pressed the phone tighter to his ear as if the mere gesture could bring them closer still.

“Then do you mind if I ask why you called me?” Bucky stared like a moron at a bit of lint on the otherwise immaculate floor. “Not that I'm not happy that you called. I mean, I did tell you to call if you need anything but I'm at work and –”

“I just wanted to thank you, Buck.” Steve chuckled lightly at Bucky's embarrassing rambling. God, why was he such a moron sometimes? Bucky would love to blame his sudden clumsiness and rambling on anything but Steve.

“You don't need to thank me, Steve.”

“But I do.” Steve's breath hitched before adding, “Look, I know that you're at work and you don't have time for this right now, but I just wanted to thank you, Buck. For everything.”

Bucky turned with the back at the rest of the room and leaned his forehead against the cold surface of the wall, closing his eyes.

“You don't have to,” he mumbled in the receiver, his stomach churning. Hearing Steve's voice on the phone after so many years was unbelievably hard and it was doing something to his heart that he really didn't want to think about. The memory of long hours spent on the phone talking about everything and nothing, laughing and breathing together, whispering sexy things and moaning softly – all for themselves only – was so sudden and painful, Bucky almost ended the call right then and there.

“But I do, Buck, I do. Look, I know how hard it must have been for you to come to visit me afterwards and for you to see me like that after not hearing from me for so long. So I just wanted to say how much I appreciated it.” Steve's voice turned warmer and lower. Bucky bit his lip hard, overcome with emotion. “I always thought that you were kind, Bucky. Even during our arguments, you were always the kinder and more generous one.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said, trying for amused but failing pretty spectacularly. “Look, I've got to go, Steve. I was in a meeting and I –”

“Can't talk,” Steve supplied and Bucky should stop imagining things like the fact that Steve sounded slightly disappointed by the shortness of their conversation. “Of course, Buck. Just – thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me, Steve. But you're welcome.”

“One more thing before you go,” Steve said quickly, and Bucky's hand tightened on the phone. “I was thinking if you want to grab dinner with me some time. Wherever you want to go. You know me, I'm down with just about everything. If you feel up for it.”

Bucky was sure that the sudden hitch in his breath was so audible that T'Challa himself must have heard it from five floors up. The seconds ticked by as the awkwardness spread like a wildfire between them, just as deadly.

“I – I don't think that's necessary, Steve,” he mumbled at last, feeling the need to punch something. “I mean, I'm glad that you're okay and everything and of course, I'm happy for you to call me if you need anything else but I – I don't think it's a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” Steve's disappointment was completely audible this time and Bucky suppressed another sigh. “I thought it might not be.” Steve became so silent over the phone that for a moment Bucky actually opened his eyes and looked at the phone to see whether Steve hung up on him. After what felt like hours, Steve finally cleared his voice and said softly, “I'll let you go then.” Mother Mary and all the saints, if Steve didn't sound like he meant more than just ending the call with that one line. But Bucky was too stunned to act annoyed at his former boyfriend and he really did have to return to the meeting.

“Okay. See you around then.”

“See ya.” They breathed in unison for a few more moments like a farcical and tensed replica of _you hang up/ no, you hang up._ Then, gently, Bucky took the phone away from his ear and hung up at last. He put his cell back in his pocket and splayed his fingers on the wall, his forehead still pressed against the cold surface, taking a deep breath in and trying to calm down enough to be able to join the meeting again.

“What are you doing?”

“Goddamn it!” Bucky yelped and turned around, hand flying to his chest, only to see Okoye staring him down like she'd had enough of his bullshit already and really didn't want to know what he was being dramatic about this time. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“My apologies,” she said. She didn't sound apologetic at all, Bucky noticed to his own chagrin. “But I'm not the one in the hallway, looking for all intents and purposes like I'm having a nervous breakdown.”

“And if I were having one, wouldn't you feel bad right now?”

“No, I wouldn't, because I'd already be on my way to ensure that you get the necessary help.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

Her eyes turned softer as she watched him more closely. “Are you all right?” Her voice sounded kinder still. Bucky was amazed at times by Okoye's tenacity and propensity to show her softer side to a few close ones. Bucky considered himself extremely lucky and privileged to witness such kindness addressed to his own person.

“I'm fine, thank you.”

“Hard day?”

“No.”

“Hard phone conversation?”

“Like you wouldn't believe.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, his lips barely able to curl in a pale resemblance of a smile. “I just made a big decision but I'm not sure whether it's a good one.”

“You'll know.” She appeared sure enough for the both of them, but Bucky doubted that he wasn't going to agonize over his conversation later on in the evening when it was just himself and his thoughts.

“Yeah. Well, I'd better get back to Mr. Fury.”

“I thought he told you to call him Nick.”

“He can tell me to call him Nick as much as he likes, the man will always be Mr. Fury to me.”

Okoye smiled and they parted, walking in opposite directions. Bucky was determined to forget about the whole ordeal for now. The meeting lasted another hour, during which Bucky was able to fully concentrate on the task at hand and speak with Fury about the current project that he was working on. It always gave Bucky a sense of security talking with someone about what he was planning to do and how he was planning to execute it before checking the various other details. It also helped getting feedback from his colleagues, as collaboration and cooperation between colleagues were mandatory at Black Panther. Not to mention that having the support and knowledge of other engineers, some much more experienced, helped tremendously considering this was the first project of which he was solely in charge and the client was quite an important personality.

When he returned to his office, he noticed that Okoye was at Wanda's desk with an immense floral arrangement made of beautiful pink peonies and white roses. Wanda, his secretary and personal lifesaver, was talking animatedly. Bucky quickened his step because he wasn't about to miss the opportunity of playfully mocking Okoye about her suitor.

“Well, well, well.” Bucky smirked like the cat that got the cream as he approached Wanda's desk. “If it isn't my two favorite girls and a bunch of beautiful flowers.” His smirk turned into a grin as sharp as a shark's. He turned slightly towards Okoye. “Please, tell me they're from M'Baku, that he finally pulled his head out of his ass and asked you out on a date.”

“They are actually for you,” Okoye replied, perfectly bland. “See? There's a little card right there, saying _For Mr. James Barnes_.” Bucky turned towards the flowers again and followed Okoye's pointed finger only to be met indeed with a little card with his name on it. Bucky frowned and plucked it from among the beautiful flowers.

“Someone has an admirer,” Wanda sing-songed and Bucky scowled at her playfully.

“Please, it's more likely that I win the lottery.” Bucky opened the small envelope and pulled out the card written in such a familiar scrawl that Bucky's throat tightened in sudden dismay. _I hope peonies are still your favorite flowers. Thank you for everything, Bucky. -Steve_

He must have made a poor attempt at controlling his emotions because both women reacted almost immediately.

“Should I throw them away?” Wanda asked solicitously, kind eyes watching him with worry. She had arrived into his life about two years ago and Bucky still wondered what he'd do without her.

“I can figure out who sent them and make them pay dearly within an hour if it's necessary,” Okoye offered more bluntly.

Bucky shuddered at the cold granite in her voice and was glad yet again that she'd always been on his side. Bucky was vaguely aware of her past in the military, but Okoye had never really been open about it. As far as Bucky could guess, T'Challa and his sister, Shuri – the head of the newly-founded software engineering department – were the only ones who knew the whole story as they had all grown up together. And, Bucky suspected, M'Baku, their financial consultant, had managed to find out bits and pieces from the original source. Consequently, he had no doubt that if the flowers had indicated an unwelcomed attention, Okoye was more than capable of finding out the culpable person and make them regret their choices in life.

However, Steve's gesture wasn't entirely unwelcome. It just reeked too much of regret and what might have been.

“No, it's fine, thank you,” he said, his lopsided smile not convincing at all. “I just didn't expect the gesture but it's fine.”

“You don't look so fine,” Okoye replied, her frown deepening. “Has this anything to do with that difficult phone conversation?”

“Yeah.” Bucky looked at the flowers, melancholic. “I'll just take them into my office.”

“Bucky, are you sure?” Wanda looked aside at the flowers then back up at him. “I can still throw them away if you'd rather not deal with them.”

“No, it's fine. Thank you.” He took the flower arrangement into his office and set it on the window ledge next to a photo of his family. The rays of the afternoon sun caressed the pale petals as Bucky stood in front of the window and watched life moving on around him. For the rest of the day, he kept catching himself staring at the flowers and thinking of Steve. He wondered whether he made the right decision when he refused the chance of having dinner together.

The entire weekend had been far too confusing for him and he wondered for the billionth time what closure felt like because it sure as hell seemed like he'd never got any in the first place.

~*~

“Knock, knock,” his dad said as he literally knocked on the door of his office one sunny Wednesday afternoon.

“Dad.” Bucky smiled as he stood up and hugged his dad. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to take my son to lunch, if you have a bit of time for your old man.” Bucky rolled his eyes with amusement as he went back to his desk and his dad sat on the comfortable chair across from him. His dad looked so much better lately. He was still handsome as he aged and Bucky could see a lot of similarities between them, from the grey winter eyes to the soft brown hair, his father's now peppered with white. It made him look more distinguished, a respectable lawyer through and through.

“Yeah, sure, let me just finish this email and I'm all yours.” Bucky began typing away but still managed to ask, “What are we celebrating?”

“I just won the Kostas case.” His father waved dismissively, trying to minimize how much this victory meant to him, but Bucky couldn't be fooled. They'd spent many phone conversations, late into the evening, talking about the case and how his father had been affected by the implications of it and by how much his client had suffered. Although he couldn't reveal many of the details of the case, his father had been questioning himself and the practical usefulness of the law in protecting victims.

“Dad, that's amazing! Congratulations!”

“What can I say? Apparently, I still have it, even in my old age.” He grinned mischievously and Bucky shook his head amusedly.

“What did mom say?” Bucky didn't have any doubts that Winnie Barnes had been the first person to find out the outcome of the deliberations. The way his father's face lit up only strengthened Bucky's suspicion.

“She said to get off my high horse but that I'm awesome and we're going out tonight to celebrate with Rita and Martin at _Antonio's_.”

“Oh, she must be especially proud of you if she's taking you out for Italian food.”

George shrugged and glanced at the huge floral arrangement that Bucky had set on the window ledge. “I guess so. Anyway, since I was nearby, I decided to see what my favorite son has been up to and to take him out for lunch.”

“Dad, I'm your only son.” Bucky smiled as he sent the email and closed the lid of the laptop.

“Exactly, which makes everything better since you're my favorite son, too.”

“And I presume that Becca is your favorite daughter.”

“You see? I'm glad you're keeping up with me after all.” George glanced at the flowers again and nodding towards them, he said, “I see I'm not the only one that is appreciated this week. Who are the flowers from?”

“Steve,” Bucky answered as he pretended to look for his wallet. Becca had always mocked his inability to lie to their parents, no matter how dire the situation was and how much it was required. Pointlessly looking through his things, Bucky ignored his father's knowing look.

“Which Steve?”

“Steve Rogers.”

“I see.” His dad stared at the flowers pensively and then focused his eyes on his son, kind and patient. “I thought you were no longer in touch with him.”

“I wasn't.” Bucky took a deep breath then leaned back into his office chair, all pretense gone, slowly pushing his legs to gently spin the chair back and forth in half-aborted moves. “I only found out recently that he's back in New York. He's been renting an apartment in Dumbo for the past year, I guess. Not that it matters. It's just that he was involved in a car accident and I was still listed as his next of kin.”

“Is he all right?”

“Yeah, a little banged up but nothing major. He's already been released from the hospital and I guess he's at home recovering.”

“And the flowers?”

“Just a little thank you for helping him out.”

“A little?”

“Okay, maybe a big thank you.”

“It was a nice gesture.”

“It was.”

“And you didn't throw them away, I see.”

“I didn't.” George looked at his son patiently without saying anything more and goddamn it, but that tactic had always worked far better with Bucky than Winnie's constant prodding. Bucky sighed and scratched at his stubbled cheek. “He wanted to take me out to dinner some time but I said it wasn't a good idea.”

“Because you still feel something for him?”

“Because – yeah, yeah. Uhm, because of that.” Bucky peered through his eyelashes at his dad. “Are you mad?”

“Of course not, Bucky.” His dad watched him with kind eyes. “Honestly, I think I've always suspected that you weren't over Steve as much as you pretended to be. Maybe because there wasn't time for you to properly process what happened in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, less than a year after the breakup, you had the accident. And then it was adjusting to your new life, studying for your exams, and working hard at your other projects. All in all, I'm saying that you haven't had much time for yourself. And your mom was right – you didn't date much, to begin with.” George looked at the flowers again. “How is Steve?”

“He's doing well for himself.” Bucky shrugged and turned towards the flower as well. “He's got an exhibition at a gallery in Upper East Side and next year three of his works are going to be included in an exhibition at MOMA.”

“Really? How wonderful for him. Is he single?”

“Dad, come on!” Bucky groaned and scowled at his dad. “You can't be serious right now.”

“Serious like a heart attack.”

“Oh my God!” Bucky threw his arm up as his dad looked rather pleased with himself.

“Don't pretend like you don't want to know that.”

“Fine. I think he is? I mean, I'm not sure because I didn't dare ask him, but his friend Sam wasn't in a hurry to call a lover and I guess if he had, then someone would have been there for him.”

“Someone was.” George smiled when he saw his son watching him rather confused. “ _You_ were there for him.”

“I don't think that's the same.”

“You were together for seven years, Bucky,” his dad said gently, his lips curling into a small smile. “I've never seen you so happy before or after. That kind of love can't be erased so easily. I wish it was if only so I could see you happy again. But if you decide that your happiness lays with Steve once again, then I'd be the last person to stand in your way.”

“Becca said kind of the same thing.”

“She inherits the wise genes from me.”

“I thought it was from mom.”

“Ouch, words hurt too, kiddo.” His dad watched him thoughtfully. “It doesn't mean that I wouldn't be worried about you getting hurt again. And your mother may be worried about that too.” He stood up and rubbed his hands together. “Now let's get some food.”

“Thank you, Dad.” Bucky stood up and walked around the desk so he could hug his dad. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Whatever you decide, son, I'm there for you.” George hugged his son tighter. He clapped him on his back and let him go. “Now let's go and eat because I'm starving and I really do want to hear more about these adventurous days you had.”

“You just really like to gossip.”

“I live vicariously through you, son. You seem to have inherited all the drama for the entire family.”

“That's good to know. Really helpful. Are you planning on talking about it at the traditional Barnes summer potluck too?”

“Oh, please, your grandma's been asking about your love life for ages. At least now I've got something to tell her.”

Bucky groaned despondently as his dad laughed all the way to the elevators, making jokes about Bucky being a poor sport. Bucky just smiled, shook his head and made terrible comments that only managed to feed his father's amusement. As they made their way to the car park, Bucky couldn't help but be grateful for his dad and his easy acceptance, but dreading his mom's reaction. By far she'd be the least delighted person to hear anything remotely related to Steve, though she had no qualms in using Steve as a weapon against Bucky's obvious lack of interest in dating.

Luckily, he didn't need to worry about it because he was sure that he wasn't going to hear from Steve any time soon. If the conversation today proved anything it was that they wouldn't hear each other ever again.

~*~

“Honey, I'm home!” Bucky shouted as he slammed the door and tugged his coat off, ready for the traditional dinner at his parents' house. He'd been quite satisfied with how his project was going and he was in the mood for great food and awesome conversation.

“Nobody cares!” His sister yelled back from the kitchen. Becca was helping mom with dinner? May God help them all!

“Can't you just close the door properly? Did we raise you in a barn?” His dad shouted back from the living room. “Also, honey doesn't live here. I think you're at the wrong house.”

“Please, stop yelling!” His mom joined their conversation from the kitchen. “Use indoors voices only.”

Bucky laughed out loud as he toed his shoes off. He went into the living room. His dad was already dressed in a comfortable shirt and a pair of loose jeans, a sign that he'd cut his day short and had come home earlier today. He was watching the news channel and shaking his head in dissatisfaction.

“What are you doing, Dad?” Bucky asked as he took a seat next to him and gave him a short hug.

“I'm pondering over the stupidity of humankind and trying not to get too annoyed about the nonsense that some people are spewing these days.”

“Is it working?”

“I'm failing spectacularly.” His dad shook his head again and changed the channel to an evening show. “How's my favorite son?”

“Still going on with this?” Bucky chuckled and his father smiled, not taking his eyes from the TV.

“Might as well get used to it.”

“I'm fine, just tired. How was your celebratory dinner with Martin and Rita?”

“Well, I managed to have a steak, in spite of the impending doom to my arteries.”

“Wow, mom must have been in good humour.”

“You're no longer my favourite son. You're just _a_ son.”

Bucky laughed again, “You're so fickle, Dad. Jesus!” He paused for a better effect and then said, “You change your heart so quickly.”

“Oh, we're going there,” his dad replied, but couldn't hold on to his serious tone and chuckled. “Don't let mom hear that or she's going to yell at us both.”

“I thought the arm puns might help her get used to our fine sense of humor. I see I was mistaken in my assumptions.”

“What are you two gossiping about?” Mom interrupted them as she leaned against the doorway. She was flushed from the heat in the kitchen and she looked less tired than the previous weeks.

“We were just talking about what a wonderful and kind woman you are,” Bucky replied with a wide grin like the little shit that he was.

“Oh, I see how this is going to be,” his mom replied. “In that case, maybe I'll eat the apple pie alone with Becca and let you two chuckleheads simply watch us.”

“You baked an apple pie?” Bucky's eyes widened in sudden delight. “Please, tell me some cinnamon might have been involved as well.”

“I'm not going to say anything of the sort since you two aren't going to touch it.”

“But Mom,” Bucky whined and pouted shamelessly. “Becca has always been your favorite. I see that now.”

“I'm not even going to deign that with an answer.” His mom smiled at them. “Come on, dinner is ready. Your dad made enchiladas.”

“God, have I mentioned how much I love the both of you?” Bucky stood up like an eager puppy and helped his dad to his feet.

“The saying that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach is absolutely true with this kid,” his dad said and shook his head fondly.

“I've got a healthy dose of respect for good food,” Bucky chimed in as they entered the kitchen, suddenly wrapped in mouth-watering scents. “And who let this stranger into our house?” he added. He winked at his sister and kissed her on the cheek before taking a seat at the table.

“Oh, wow, ladies and gentlemen and non-binary people, if it isn't Bucky Barnes, civil engineer by day and comedian by night.” His sister rolled her eyes and sat next to him. “You really need to work on your jokes, dipshit. You start to lose your sense of humor in your old age.”

“At least I have some to lose in the first place.”

“Ouch, that really hurts. _Not_!”

“Every time I think I have normal, mature, and well-mannered children,” his dad intervened and pretended to be sad, “there they go proving me wrong.”

“Well, even the crow thinks its babies are the most beautiful ones,” Becca chuckled.

“Sometimes I worry about you two.”

“Puh-lease, we're perfect and you wouldn't want us any other way.” His sister laughed and put some enchiladas on her plate.

“Also, only sometimes?” Bucky concentrated in adding some food to his plate too, the smell of beef making his mouth water. “I thought that the purpose of parents was to constantly worry about their children.”

“Dear Lord, you've been here five minutes and I'm already tired,” their mom said, stopping the conversation before it went too far. Bucky chuckled – there have been a few dinner nights when they continued to exchange jabs for hours. “Why don't we talk about how everyone's week was?”

“Mine was awesome because I'm generally awesome,” Becca answered straight away, mouth full of enchiladas. Huh, and she complained about _him_ talking with his mouth full. “But seriously, we've been working on some really awesome paintings just recently discovered in the attic of a collector. I can't say much yet but they're so beautiful and once we restore them to their former glory, they're going to be gorgeous. Also, I've seen some of Paul Thek's works up close and personal and they're beautiful. God, I really love my work.”

“Was Thek that guy with the beeswax sculptures? The Brooklyn guy?” Because Bucky might have tuned out both Steve and Becca when they used to talk about art, ignoring Bucky's grumblings – he'd been secretly happy to see the two of them get along so well – but he still managed to absorb some information.

“Yes, big bro, the Brooklyn guy.” Becca rolled her eyes at him. “How come you don't remember much about him but you do remember –” Bucky's cell rang suddenly, cutting Becca off and much to his mom's chagrin.

“Bucky, what did I say about cell phones at the dinner table?”

“Sorry, mom, let me just –” Bucky dug for the phone and was about to switch it off when he saw the caller id. Against his better judgment, he pressed the green icon and answered the phone.

“Hey, sorry, I can't talk-”

“Bucky!” Steve sounded really off, his voice cracking. “Bucky!”

“Steve, what's wrong?” Bucky asked, immediately alarmed, half-way standing up from his chair, failing to notice the way his mother's face darkened at the sound of that name. “What happened?”

“Bucky, Riley said something awful and I couldn't believe – Tell me it's not true. I didn't see anything wrong at the time.”

“Steve, you're not making much sense,” Bucky replied, dread curling tight inside his belly like a vicious snake. “Please, calm down.” He made his way in the living room. Steve's labored breath made goosebumps bloom all over his arm. There were muted voices on the other end of the line and then Sam's voice picked up the conversation.

“Hey, Bucky,” he said apologetically.

“Sam, what happened?”

“Riley happened. He's so sorry. He wasn't aware that Steve didn't know about your arm and he made the mistake of asking Steve how you lost it.” Bucky didn't think his stomach could sink lower than this.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, man. Look, we're really sorry about this.”

“Fuck!” Bucky reiterated, probably to the assent of just about everyone involved in the drama. “No, don't worry, Sam. You couldn't have known. Riley couldn't either. I'm just sorry to put you in this position.”

“Yeah, no, don't worry about that, man.” Sam sounded tired and heart-broken for some reason that Bucky couldn't fathom. “Look, Steve's calmed down a little. Can I give him back the phone so you two can have a talk?”

“Yeah, sure.” There was that familiar scuffle again and then Steve's voice came back on the line.

“Bucky.” His voice sounded utterly shattered, making Bucky regret that he hadn't mentioned anything before, though there hadn't been any right moment to do it. It was almost three weeks since the accident he really thought that at this point, no one was going to mention anything to Steve. Bucky thought it was safe to assume that he could keep his arm a secret.

“Is it true?” Steve's voice sounded small and tired.

“Yes, it is.” Steve made a sound that sounded terribly like a sob and Bucky scrunched his eyes closed for a moment in a poor attempt to calm down the turmoil inside of him. “Look, I can't talk right now, Steve. I'm at my parents' house. We're having dinner.”

“But –”

“How about tomorrow? Our usual place? Say noon?”

“Yes, Bucky, anywhere.”

“Okay. Okay.” He sighed. “I have to go now. See you tomorrow.”

“You'll really come?”

“I promise.”

“Okay then. See you tomorrow.” Steve hung up before Bucky could add anything else and he wondered briefly whether he did that to avoid Bucky changing his mind, of which he was terribly tempted at the moment.

He sighed as he walked back into the kitchen. His mother's stormy eyes didn't promise anything good. Bucky sat back down at the table and began eating again, under everybody's watchful eye. Bucky had never been in the eye of a storm but he thought that it must have looked exactly like his parents' kitchen in that particular moment. The fact that it took his mom more than a few seconds to address the issue was the only surprise.

“So, I'm assuming that the reason why you refused that date with Jack Hanson was because Steve is back in your life.”

“Who's Jack?”

“Lisa's son and don't try to change the subject.”

“Look, mom,” Bucky sighed and leaned back against the chair, “Steve's not back in my life. And even if he was, I don't think I'd like much what you're about to say. So save it, please. There's no need to say it.”

“I just don't want you to get hurt again.”

“Mom, seriously, there's nothing between me and Steve. He was involved in a car accident and I was still listed as his next of kin. I went there, signed a bunch of paperwork for him, and ensured he was fine. I haven't seen him since then.”

“Then why is he calling you?”

“He just found out that I lost my arm. That will cure him of any romantic ideas he might still have about me.”

“I hate when you talk like that about yourself,” his mom said and carefully set her cutlery down on the plate. A deep frown was now marring her features. “There are people out there, Bucky, who wouldn't care about that. People can be good too. They can see how wonderful you are, how smart and brilliant you are.”

“Mom, come on, I'm not selling myself short. But you don't have to live like an object worthy of pity every single day. You're not the one who sees every day how people look at me when they realize.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and stared down at his half-finished food. He attempted to pull himself together so he looked up and smiled wobbly at his mom. “Can we please not talk about this right now? I was really looking forward to that apple pie.”

“I just want what's best for you.” Her mouth crumpled with unhappiness and her shoulders slumped as she pushed her mostly uneaten plate.

“What's best for me right now is to stop talking about Steve Rogers or my arm and just have dinner with my family in peace.” Bucky sighed dejectedly. “Please?”

“Fine, but this isn't over.”

“Fine.” They both stared at each other, not willing to back down.

“So how about them Yankees, eh?” Becca said jokingly. Bucky chuckled and glanced sideways at his sister, grateful for her support.

“Yankees? Really?”

“Well, I could start talking about that Brooklyn guy and his beeswax sculptures. Or how I met Tony Stark yesterday.”

“You met Tony Stark?” It was his dad's wonder that made everyone at the table smile a little. “Shouldn't you have started with this news in the first place?”

“Oh, please,” Becca huffed, “it's not every day that precious paintings are discovered in a collector's attic. That's much more interesting than meeting a playboy billionaire.”

“Who's technically married, and therefore no longer a playboy.”

“That's semantics, Dad.”

“Fine, fine, do proceed at your own pace.”

“Thank you.” She bowed slightly with a shit-eating grin.

So Becca settled into talking about a certain no longer a playboy but still a billionaire, about his ramblings and his healthy respect for art. All the while, their mother kept quiet and watched Bucky worriedly. Bucky did his best to listen to his sister and managed to avoid being left alone with his mom for the rest of the evening. He was already dreading the next day. He didn't need the added pressure.

~*~

Bucky got there first and sat down on a bench, watching the dark waters of the East River traveling between Manhattan and Brooklyn like a slippery immortal serpent that couldn't care less about the little human ants around it. The sky was dark with fat clouds about to spill, much to Bucky's dismay; he had realized too late that he didn't bring an umbrella. His hand was white-knuckled and rested on his thigh, the other sleeve pinned carefully just about where the elbow should be. The dark navy coat protected him from the bitterness of the cold wind but not from the bitterness of his own soul. The intolerable taste of bile at the back of his throat burnt like acid.

And then Steve was there, sitting carefully next to him, soft eyes and mouth crumpled in unhappiness. He looked terribly handsome in a soft brown trench coat, his blond hair in disarray and blue eyes burning like sapphires. His sling was gone, the bruises on his face fading.

"Oh Buck," Steve said gently, and Bucky's name on those lips sounded like a lament.

"Before we do this – whatever the hell this is – I need you to understand one thing: this isn't about _you_ , this has nothing to do with you or with your sense of guilt. This is something that happened to _me_ and if I hear one _I should have been there for you_ or _I should have never left_ , I'm walking away and chunking my phone in the river. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Also, I can't look at you when I tell the story so don't take it personally. It's still tough talking about it."

"Buck, if it's too much, I don't want you to tell me anything." Steve sighed, frustrated, but Bucky didn't dare look at him. "I didn't want to put any pressure on you in the first place. But knowing you were hurt –" The voice cracked and spilled over them, the rawness of it hitting both of them. "I hardly believed it when Riley mentioned it."

"I want to tell you but it's not easy."

"I don't think I have the right to know." The soft admission pulled Bucky out of his staring contest with the river as he gently glanced at Steve. How that tall glass of water could suddenly shrink so much was a wonder. But Steve's head was bowed in a way that Bucky didn't like. He could never stomach the idea of Steve being hurt or suffering, even at their worst.

"We mutually decided to break up," Bucky muttered kindly but the words seemed to gut Steve. "You were going to leave for Chicago and I couldn't follow you. I'll be honest, I've been angry at you for a long time. I couldn't understand why you had to leave me here when we were so close to being whatever we wanted to be." Bucky sighed and turned his eyes back to the river, his eyes stinging with past pain. "But in spite of all that anger, Steve, even after so long, I never wanted you to be unhappy. I still don't."

A strong hand covered his and squeezed tightly. Bucky looked down uncomprehendingly but his body ached for him and his thumb gently caressed the beautiful arch of Steve's hand, the soft skin of it.

"I berated myself a million times over," Steve's voice sounded hoarse and split open, "but I couldn't stay, Buck. I _couldn't_. After mom died, there were times when I sat in front of the canvas and wanted to claw my eyes out, not knowing what to do with myself."

"I know that, Steve." The implied _I know that now_ flew between them like a trapped seagull. Bucky looked back at the river to avoid the rawness of Steve's subdued look. He bit his lip hard enough to sting. "I honestly didn't think I'd ever get a chance to do this with you again."

"Talk?"

"Touch." Steve squeezed his hand so hard it bordered on painful and yet Bucky couldn't find it in himself to smile. The silence wrapped around them like a fleecy blanket, filled with muted confessions and words left unsaid. And yet the weight of it wasn't painful or even awkward. They shared that simple moment of intimacy the way they had shared everything in the past – with a sort of complicit acceptance that would be added to the fabric of their beings.

"I pictured this moment a million times over," Steve confessed into the rainy darkness of the day. "This definitely wasn't what I had in mind."

"Me armless?"

"You willing to talk to me."

"God, Steve, we're so fucked up. We can't even have a normal conversation without the break up taking the discussion.”

"And here you thought the hardest thing was going to be talking about your arm." Steve's smile was an ugly and brittle thing and Bucky squeezed his hand back, like a touching echo of that rawness. Steve's tensed shoulders loosened up a little as he rubbed his face with the other hand.

"I lost it in a car accident," Bucky said bluntly, making Steve hiss in reply, "Jesus Christ, Buck."

"The driver was drunk. I only found out afterwards." Bucky returned his gaze to the river but held on to that warm hand.

He told Steve about the accident – what little he remembered of it, anyway – and of the terrible reality he'd woken up from the induced coma, of the way his parents and Becca's love convinced him to fight and get into the recovery process. Of the letter he received from the drunk driver apologizing for what he had done, how Bucky had thrown it in the trash because he couldn't read it and then had fished out because he'd still been looking for an explanation and he had wanted it, even coming from the least reliable source. About that terrible first year, when he had felt that his world was falling apart permanently when every little thing that he couldn't do anymore burnt and seared like a steel knife to the gut.

There were so many more things to be said but Bucky decided to keep it to the abridged version of the events. The terrible loneliness and the bitter acceptance that no one was ever going to see past his damaged arm were no one's issues but his own. Steve listened carefully, shoulders now slumped, an Atlas giving in under the weight. As he talked, Bucky watched the dark clouds getting fatter and ready to spill. The bitter wind lessened. Steve's hand over his and the line of his lithe body next to Bucky was the only source of heat.

“You could say something,” Bucky mumbled after a long moment of silence when his words had stopped spilling over them like the cold sea's tide.

“All I can think of are words that you expressly told me not to say. And I don't want to make you leave by saying them,” Steve said, voice cracked and brittle like he just swallowed gravel. “But – I mean, could I say how grateful I am for your strength and for your fighting spirit? Uhm, instead of saying I'm sorry. If that's okay.”

“I don't think I've been particularly strong,” Bucky muttered, but the words echoed into his heart as if someone had plucked the inner strings of a violin. “But thank you. It's actually nice to hear that. For once. Instead of sorry.”

“I'm sorry that you had to go through all of that.” Bucky glanced down at their hands again then up at Steve, who for the first time seemed to avoid his eyes, staring down at the East River as the first few drops of rain blessed them in silence. “I have an umbrella,” Steve said suddenly and finally met Bucky's gaze, eyes like liquid blue fire. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered, breathless. Steve smiled – it was a feeble attempt and it didn't reach his eyes – but they stood up and Steve opened his umbrella, a huge black thing, like the dark wings of a bird, and they began to walk, hands still clasped tight, now fingers intertwined.

“During my first few months in Chicago, I'd walk along the Lake Michigan shore and pretend that it was the East River and that I couldn't see Manhattan because of the fog,” Steve said softly after a while. “I'd close my eyes and think of you and mom and your family. But mostly, I just thought of you.”

It struck Bucky how mundane everything looked – people passed them by with children or dogs or by themselves, talking or running or arguing – and there they were, walking amongst them as if they weren't having one of the hardest conversations they'd ever had. As if his heart wasn't breaking with each word spoken between them, with each silent tear into their new lives. Bucky listened in silence because he literally didn't know what to say.

“God, Buck!” Steve stopped abruptly, turning towards him as the rain fell around them at last like a wet veil. His hand tightened. “How the hell am I supposed to take a walk with you and accept everything you just told me without saying how sorry I am for not being there for you? I know – fuck, _I know_ – that it happened to you. But I should have been there for you. I should have found a way.”

“Steve, there's nothing that you could –”

“Fuck, I know, I know, but still!” Steve's touch was searing. He frowned even more and bit his lip and God, he was gorgeous, and Bucky really didn't know what to make of it. Steve opened his mouth a few times as if searching for the right words and when he finally spoke again, it wasn't something that Bucky expected. “You were honest with me and I feel like I should be honest with you too. Ever since I got back to New York, I've been trying to think of a way to get in touch with you.”

“What?” Bucky could feel a sense of dread washing over him.

“I wanted to get in touch with you,” Steve said firmly as his eyes melted into a terrible mess of guilt and sadness. “I was trying to figure out a way to ask you to be part of my life again. In any way. Like a friend, occasional acquaintance, anything.”

“But you were the one that left!” Bucky said the words before he even thought them and Steve actually flinched at hearing them. “You didn't even tell me you were going to leave that week. You left me a letter. Seriously, a fucking letter! That was like the worst kind of dramatic gesture you could've made.”

“I wouldn't have had the courage to leave otherwise, Bucky. But I was terrible to you during those last few months. And if I stayed, I would've continued to make you miserable. Jesus, I hated it, but I would have never had the guts to tell you that I'm leaving otherwise.”

“How convenient! How generous of you!” Bucky's anger sipped to the surface of his words and pulled his hand out of Steve's. “And what now? Were you going to say that you moved back to New York because of me?”

“No, Buck! Or well, yes, I thought that it might be fate telling me to pull myself together and try to see if I can be back into your life.” Steve ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at it in frustration. “I know I don't the right –”

“Of course you fucking don't!” Bucky sneered, his voice loud and clear even amongst the patter of the rain and the cries of the seagulls. “And what if I had a boyfriend? What then?”

“Wait, you mean you don't?” Steve's astonishment was a bitter pill to swallow for Bucky.

“Of course not, Steve! Who the fuck would want to date a fucking cripple?”

“Don't ever talk like that about yourself!” Steve grabbed him by the arm and held night. “Not ever!”

“You can't tell me what to do!” Bucky seethed and tore his arm away. “God, this is so stupid! So fucking stupid!” He looked around them, relishing in the solitude that the rain offered them. “While I was in the hospital, I wished so hard for you,” he said after a while and each word was painful. Each word seemed to shred his throat apart. Steve made a small sound, a sob or a moan, but Bucky couldn't look at him.

“Buck.”

“I wished for you, even though I knew it was absurd,” he barrelled on as if he hadn't even heard his name on Steve's lips. “I wished for you in the dead of the night. I imagined how you'd come and tell me that you had a dream and that you had to find me. Or I pictured you calling my mom every once in a while behind my back to ask her how I was doing and she'd tell you and you'd run back to me. I even pictured Becca going to Chicago to physically drag you back. And each time, although I kept telling myself that such scenarios were absurd, I really believed you'd walk through that door.” Bucky stared back at Steve. “But you _never_ did. You never did.”

“Bucky, please.” Steve's hand was on his cheek, a warm weight, his thumb caressing his cheekbone and Bucky didn't realize he'd started to cry. Steve looked absolutely gutted and his entire face seemed to fall, his hand trembling on the umbrella. He mumbled, sounding so lost, “I'm sorry, I'm so goddamn sorry.”

“Like I give a fuck about your sorry!” Bucky looked down and away at the churning water, a perfect mirror of his own lament. He was so angry at Steve all of a sudden, so despondent in the face of such wrath and yet so –

– _longing_.

“God, Steve, it's been _so long_ ,” Bucky's voice shattered into pieces, scattered into the wind and rain. “So goddamn long! What took you so long? Where were you? Where the fuck were you?”

Steve made a sound like he was being flayed open and put on display. Steve's hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck and pulled his body against his. Bucky came willingly because he was exhausted of fighting this. The umbrella crashed down as Steve's other arm came around his waist. God, how he had missed this man! How he had missed being engulfed into those wonderful arms, so strong and secure around him.

He grabbed a fistful of Steve's trench coat and held tight, their bodies almost fused together. Steve trembled against him and pressed even closer, as if he wanted to protect Bucky from the rain that was now falling freely over them, icy in contrast to the warmth of their bodies together. Steve held on tight, murmuring sweet apologies against his ear, begging for forgiveness. Bucky hid his face at the juncture between Steve's shoulder and neck and inhaled deeply.

It was like coming home.

 


	5. Chapter Five

The door closed with a soft click behind them, plummeting them into the somber shadows of the rainy afternoon, the small hallway all the darker. Steve excused himself for a second and walked into the living room, disappearing from Bucky's visual field.

The silence of the apartment wrapped around him like a comfortable blanket. The raindrops knocked against the windows and pattered against the window ledges as if they were begging to be let in. The weak light from the overcast sky outside reflected made the apartment look so much smaller and unwelcome. At least that's how it seemed to Bucky, who was still standing in the hallway, dripping all over the clean carpet. The barren walls emphasized the feeling of solitude all the more – something hard clenched inside of Bucky's chest, raw and hollow.

The ardent temptation of opening the door and getting the hell out of there sieged him from all sides. He even glanced behind him at the thick wooden door as if it could offer him an answer to the questions he didn't even know how to ask anyway. His thoughts were jumbled; he was unable to follow any to a reasonable conclusion and just stood there instead.

After their embrace down by the riverside, Steve had offered his apartment to continue the discussion – though what was left to discuss was beyond Bucky – and they both turned back to the parking lot where Bucky had left his car. By the then, the rain had turned violent and Steve hadn't been able to keep his umbrella at an angle good enough to protect both of them thoroughly. They were soaked by the time they reached the car.

And now there he was: skin too tight, mouth dry, his tongue stuck to his palate, and hand clammy. He felt like he had swallowed a hurricane, ready to burst at the seams. Taking another step, he fully turned and put his hand on the door handle as if in a dream. One simple press, just _one,_ would be enough to take him away from here. He didn't owe Steve anything anymore – he had explained the situation, he had asked what he had to ask, and seriously, there was nothing left for him to do here.

He felt like he was about to fall apart in a thousand little pieces like a fucking dandelion blown by the strongest of winds and fuck, Steve hadn't been his anchor in such a long time. Bucky shouldn't – _couldn't_ – confuse things. This encounter had been about getting closure, the closure that they apparently both needed. But a closure, nonetheless.

“Buck...”

His name on Steve's lips tore him open. Chest tight and barely breathing, Bucky swallowed thickly a few times before he squared his shoulders and turned back to Steve. He fucking hoped that the small gasp that left his lips was for his ears only because Bucky couldn't breathe with how beautiful Steve was in that moment. His hair was longer now, combed back but a few strands had managed to escape and fall over his forehead. His beautiful baby blue eyes glimmered in the afternoon gloom and the squareness of his jaw couldn't be hidden by his lovely beard.

Steve had changed into a black t-shirt and grey sweats, bare feet planted into the carpet. He looked poised for a fight or rejection – his upper arms bulged at the seams of the t-shirt, its dark color doing nothing to hide his unbelievable waist-to-shoulders ratio. In the past, Bucky had teased him about it; he had even researched Greek heroes to compare him to and had laughed when inevitably Steve scrunched up his nose at them and proceeded to tickle Bucky or playfully hit him with a pillow.

Bucky rubbed his mouth and swallowed again a few times. This wasn't the right moment to think of their shared past. Not when he felt so vulnerable and not when Steve looked so inviting.

“I need a towel,” Bucky said at last and watched Steve's forehead crease slightly.

“I got you some dry clothes for you. If you don't mind waiting for a little, I can put your clothes in the drier.”

“Thank you. I'd appreciate that.” Bucky took his shoes off and finally walked into the apartment properly. Steve scratched at the back of his neck, but Bucky ignored him in favor of looking around and processing what he was seeing.

There were still unpacked boxes in a corner, gathering dust. Nothing screamed Steve in the barren living room. There was a TV and some game consoles, a battered couch and a coffee table in front of it, filled with discarded mail and newspapers, an unwashed coffee cup left forgotten. That was it. That was the entirety of the furniture in the room. There were more boxes lined up along the wall opposite another room, whose door was closed. Bucky presumed that those boxes were filled with Steve's books. But there were no bookshelves in sight and nothing to indicate that those boxes would be opened soon.

Two big windows generously showed an urban landscape, in which rooftops drowned in the overcast sky. He could see the East River, which crawled along between the buildings as unconcerned as ever. Maybe the air of the room changed if bathed in sunshine – but the grim weather outside seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the room at the moment, splashing in shadows of solitude that made Bucky ache for reasons he didn't want to examine.

“Sorry about the mess,” Steve mumbled when Bucky failed to produce something even remotely articulate or polite.

“How long have you been living here?” Bucky asked, incredulous and incapable of coming up with a scenario for the way Steve's living room looked other than that maybe the guy was already ready to move on again to greener pastures. Although, what those greener pastures looked like, Bucky had no idea.

“About a year.” Steve's frown deepened and looked out on the massive windows.

“And you've been too busy to unpack?”

“Something like that.”

“Steve.” And that came out way harsher than expected but something had clenched tight inside of Bucky's chest and it wouldn't let go. He felt as if he was on fire. “Are you fucking leaving again? Because if you're –”

“No, no, Bucky. I promise.” Those blue eyes returned back to him, ferociously honest. Bucky burnt in stark relief. “It's just that I didn't have time to unpack.”

“You didn't have time to unpack,” Bucky repeated like a broken record and he felt stupid all at once. Why should he concern himself with whether Steve was leaving or going when there was nothing left between them anyway? Yet the sheer rawness of his relief left him even more confused and saddened.

“I know what this all looks like but it wasn't easy coming back here and adjusting to the city again.” Steve ran his thick fingers through his hair and looked back at Bucky. “It didn't help that the rental contract was just for six months when they offered it. I wasn't sure whether they'd make me move again or not – and when they did push it for another year, I kind of just said I'd do it and then forgot about it.”

“It seems like a great apartment.” Bucky shrugged and looked around again, trying to ignore Steve's embarrassment. “It would be a pity if you didn't hang up at least some of your work. Or some pictures. Maybe buy a bookcase or two.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think I'll have to do that. Sam keeps pestering me about the state of this place as well.”

“You know what they say when several people tell you the same thing.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” Steve took a deep breath then suggested, “Do you want to change into those clothes? I'll make some cocoa while you're changing.”

“Sounds great.” Bucky pointed at one of the doors. “This way?”

“No, uhm, let me show you.”

Steve opened a door to his right and showed Bucky to a small bedroom dominated by a massive bed, draped in a knitted blue duvet and covered in what seemed like ten million pillows. A baseball shirt and some black sweats rested on it and Bucky knew immediately they were for him.

“I'll let you change. Come out when you're ready.”

“Okay.”

Steve closed the door behind him and Bucky took another deep breath, Steve's subtle cologne making him dizzy. He looked around the room. The bedroom was just as sparse as the living room. More boxes sat in a corner, clothes spilling from them like the twisted insides of a slain monster. Some photos rested on the window ledge – of Steve and his mom, of Steve and Sam with Riley, of Steve and two other brown-haired women. One of the New York skyline and...

No.

It couldn't be.

Two pictures of them. One of them when they graduated, the whole Barnes family grinning like lunatics while Sarah and Steve Rogers smiled shyly at the camera. It had been so hot that day – Bucky could almost feel the sweat crawling down his spine, pooling at the base of his spine. He could almost taste Steve's kiss on his lips, dry and parched with heat and thirst. He could still feel Sarah's embrace, fierce and tight, his father shinning with pride and his mom with love as Rebecca took so many pictures that Bucky had filled three photo albums.

But the other picture brought such raw heartache that he had almost doubled in pain, as if he had received a physical punch to his gut. The other picture was of the two of them, grinning like lunatics, a blue sky and the sign for Luna Park on Coney Island behind them. Steve asked him to move in together on that day. They'd been so happy. How had they had so much happiness and shared so much love and so many wonderful moments, only for them to break apart as if nothing mattered?

Bucky couldn't bear to look at it any longer so he turned his back to the window and with a shaky hand, he took off his wet clothes and changed into the ones that Steve left for him, a pair of thick black socks next to them. Steve hadn't forgotten the fact that Bucky hated having cold feet and that he'd wear socks throughout the house even in summer.

The clothes were a bit too large for his lithe body but still comfortable – they smelled like clothes freshener and Steve. Bucky pulled the fabric to his nose and took a deep breath. The scent wrapped around him like a childhood comfort blanket, the scent of so many memories long forgotten or painfully alive.

It took him a long time to compose himself, trying to reign in the wild emotions storming just under his skin. He twisted the left sleeve into a tight knot to make sure that it wouldn't hang too loose, appreciative of Steve's gesture to leave him a t-shirt with long sleeves in the first place. He'd still feel on display, but at least he'd be comfortable. He opened the door, grabbed his wet clothes, and went back to the living room where Steve had prepared two steamy cups of hot cocoa.

“Here, let me take those.” Steve took the coat first and hung it on a hanger to make sure that it would dry properly. He disappeared with the rest of the clothes for a brief moment before returning with a shy smile, the sounds of the drier muted in the background.

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbled. Realizing he was standing there like a moron, he took a seat on the couch, which was much more comfortable than it appeared to be at first glance. He eyed Steve warily as he took a seat as well on the other side of the couch and turned on the TV, switching the channels until he found the re-run of a famous show.

“Were you happy?” Bucky's question plunged into the room like a rock on the surface of a peaceful lake. Steve looked back with an abysmally agonizing face. However, Bucky couldn't feel guilty for asking. “Were you even happy in Chicago?” he repeated, this time voice a little rougher. He took a sip of the still hot cocoa, his eyes never leaving Steve's form.

“You never begin with the easy questions.”

“I want to know.”

“Why?”

“It feels important.”

“It feels important?” Steve stared back at Bucky, his eyes a little more hardened. He rubbed his eyebrow with his forefinger. Then he clasped his hands and looked down at them, the silence pressing against both of them so hard that Bucky thought he'd never receive an answer. “Not at the beginning,” Steve said evenly after a while, his eyes meeting Bucky's again. “Not the first year. It wasn't like here. I – it was difficult adjusting to the new job and the new demands and creating pieces that didn't feel like crap.”

“And then?”

“Then it got better.” Steve grabbed his own cup in his hands but didn't drink from it. “I built a new life there: new friends, new job, and new perspectives. It was good. I was content.”

“You were content.” Bucky nodded and bit his lip, looking down at the cup in his own hand. “I never asked: do you have a boyfriend? Or _had_ a boyfriend?”

“Jesus, Bucky.” Steve huffed and put the cup back down on the coffee table, fully turning to Bucky, a leg slightly bent as he rested his hands on them. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I do. I told you a lot of things about me today.”

“And what? You want me to reciprocate by telling you about my love life? What good would that do?”

“You know, your avoidance at answering the question kind of answers the question,” he replied back meanly and set the cup on the coffee table, forcing himself to face Steve head on.

The anger was a surprise. He didn't expect to see Steve like that, face hardened like he had swallowed a hurricane as well, about to explode and overflow everywhere. But there they were, weren't they? They were in that particular moment before the storm caught up with them, or maybe it had already done so and they were already in the dead eye of it, trying to gauge terrible truths about each other and the world around them.

“What exactly do you want to know, Bucky?” Steve pushed back at last. A small thrill electrified Bucky's skin, his flesh on the arm breaking into goosebumps. “Do you want to know whether I never allowed anyone to touch me because I'd always think about you, the way you tasted, the way you smelled? Or do you want to know that I slept with other people because I looked for you in each and every one of them?”

“I want the truth.”

“Why? Shouldn't the fact that I'm currently single be enough for you?”

“No.”

“Why? I mean, I can understand that –”

“Because you were mine and then you weren't,” Bucky heard himself saying as if from a great distance. He blinked several times as if that might clear up the situation. “Because all this time, Steve, all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. Jesus Christ, how can I be so pathetic?” Bucky stood up and began to pace the room. “I want to know that all these years away from me brought a modicum of happiness in your life. That the decision to break us was good enough for you in the end.”

“I didn't have a boyfriend, but I did sleep with other people.” Steve's words stopped Bucky's mad pacing. He watched his ex-boyfriend trying to make himself smaller on the couch – it was such a ludicrous idea that Bucky would have laughed if the seriousness of the situation hadn't been so damn suffocating. “I wasn't a monk – sorry if that disappoints you.”

“It doesn't.” Bucky stomped down on the feeling of fierce possessiveness and burning jealousy that crashed against him like a tidal wave. He swallowed hard, opening his mouth a few times but nothing came out. He found himself in the impossibility of explaining to Steve that in all these years away from him, he had imagined that at least his ex-boyfriend had managed to find a little bit of comfort or love, that his decision to leave everything behind, no matter how much it had hurt Bucky, had brought with it a modicum of happiness. That it had been worth it.

“They weren't you,” Steve said softly, his voice now cracking as he stood up and approached Bucky like one would approach a skittish animal. “None of them were you. And it wasn't fair to you or them, but I tried so goddamn hard to forget you or find you in them.” Steve cupped Bucky's face, his fingers curling gently behind Bucky's ears, thumbs pushing slightly into his stubbled cheeks.

“You were the one that left.” It frightened Bucky to hear how much his voice was cracking under the onslaught of emotion.

“I did it because I was making you miserable, Bucky,” Steve's eyes were as raw as an open wound. “Don't pretend that things weren't bad between us. After mom's death, I couldn't face the world anymore. I couldn't face you. I was bitter and miserable and mean. It hurt to be left alone in the world, for all the pieces that made me _me_ to disappear as if they hadn't been there in the first place. First dad, then mom. No brothers or sisters. There were no more stories about my past, about Irish relatives that would want me, about the memories that made my entire identity. I lashed out and I hurt you too with all of this. You were miserable, Bucky. You were unhappy and I was the cause of it.”

“You could have stayed. We could have worked it out.”

“No, we couldn't.” Steve closed the space between them, their foreheads only touching a little. Bucky felt himself going rigid with pent-up tension. “You would have hated me if I had stayed. Your family would have ended up hating me too, seeing how I was making you so unhappy. I would have hated myself even more than I had already done.”

“You could have stayed,” Bucky repeated, even as bitterness was heavy in every word, even as the words lacked the conviction needed. He raised his hand and grabbed a fistful of Steve's t-shirt, pulling him even closer, dizzy with Steve's scent and his warmth. The TV was a colorless shadow behind them, almost muted out of existence, and Bucky couldn't process what Steve was trying to say.

“None of them were you,” Steve finally whispered as he kissed gently Bucky's eyebrow. “None of them tasted like you and pushed back like you. And I hated you so much for it. I was the one that left but I was the one that looked for you in other people. Wherever I turned, I expected you to be there, but you weren't. You were never there. And after a time, I stopped trying.”

“Why did you move back to New York?” Bucky asked softly as he closed his eyes, rubbing his cheek against Steve's bearded one.

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I want you back in my life. However you want me. I moved back to New York because I couldn't stand being in a place that didn't have you in it. The simple thought of being somewhere close to you gave me comfort.”

“I could have been anywhere else.”

“I checked the results of the professional engineer exam online. I saw your name there. I knew you'd never move without having taken that exam first.”

“Steve, that was a couple of years ago.” Bucky could feel Steve's blush through and pressed his cheek harder, his hand white-knuckled by now. Steve's breath tickled his skin, his body a hard line of muscle and strength and warmth against his. His wide shoulders were like a shield, protecting Bucky against the outside world. “ _Steve_ ,” he heard himself say the name, barely a whisper, more like a breath. He slowly turned his head and finally gathered enough courage to kiss the corner of those plump lips. Just once. Just a little taste.

But when Steve's taste exploded on his lips, Bucky couldn't help the little whimper that broke free. Carefully, Steve angled his face just so and pressed his lips against Bucky's _oh so carefully, oh so gently_. Bucky sighed against those delicious lips and Steve pressed harder, deeper, until Bucky could do nothing more than open his mouth against the gentle probing and surrender. The kiss was searing, breathtaking, as if Steve breathed through him, as if he couldn't get enough of him. It was painful with how much it made Bucky feel like he was coming home.

Bucky moaned with abandon as he closed whatever space was left between, pressing his body tight and feeling the ridges of Steve's ribs, his firm thighs, his strength. He had missed this so much that his heart gave a painful lurch.

“I want to see you,” Steve whispered in Bucky's ear as he gently licked his ear shell.

“Steve.” Bucky shuddered at the thought of being so exposed in front of Steve; it was exhilarating and nauseating at the same time.

“I want to see you.” Steve gently coaxed him to open his eyes and look back into those baby blues.

“You're – uhm, you're not going to like it. It's a pretty ghastly sight.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Steve tilted his head just so, not letting Bucky hide away from him. “There you are,” he muttered so kindly, his smile loopy and sweet. “I want to see you and you can see me too.”

“I –”

“Please, Bucky.”

Steve was intoxicating and Bucky couldn't say no. It would either break them or be the slight push that they needed – for what purpose, he couldn't say, but he sure as hell wanted to find out. Nonetheless, it would still be monumental.

“Could we go in the bedroom though?” he suggested in a small voice.

“Anywhere you like.”

They looked at each other, the air between them hot and heavy, mesmerizing when it shouldn't be so damn pleasurable in the first place. Bucky stepped aside, heading for the bedroom, and Steve followed him. The door clicked shut behind them but Bucky didn't turn. In the semi-darkness of the room, the entire situation seemed surreal, blanketing them both in a strange cocoon of silence and the keen sensation that they were the last people in the world.

Bucky kept his back to Steve as he took the shirt off, the slight chill of the room making him shiver. In spite of what he had said to his mom about his body, he wasn't necessarily horrified by the way his scars turned his left shoulder into a modernist painting of sinews and ligaments broken and forged again. It wasn't even the way his stump looked, clean cut, only two thick scars playing hide and seek with each other right at the edge of it. The stump had decreased in mass, though not by much, and Bucky was still forced to work out to keep his upper body strong and fit. So he wasn't necessarily ashamed of the way his body looked.

However, it was the way everything amalgamated to make him feel unfinished – pieced together like a discarded machinery – always found lacking for some reason. There were few people who had seen his stump and hadn't shown a flicker of disgust, and even fewer still that didn't gaze upon it with a mix of pity and compassion. And he had no idea what he wanted to see from Steve in that moment.

He slowly turned to face Steve, self-conscious and fearful. He had never anticipated in his wildest dreams such a terrible and raw moment – he had expected a discussion of some sort and maybe saying goodbye and that was it. Steve had taken his t-shirt off as well, his torso still painted in faded bruises, nonetheless just as beautiful as the rest of him.

“Seriously, you're ridiculous,” Bucky mumbled enviously as he watched that slow blush travel down on Steve's body. It was a nice distraction from the way Steve stared back at him, the way his eyes lingered on his scarred tissue and missing limb.

But, as he stared back at Steve, trying to read his expression, Bucky realized with a particular kind of abject awe that he had wanted to see Steve's reaction to his missing limb from the very beginning, that he craved some sort of acknowledgment.

What he hadn't expected was for Steve's eyes to suddenly light up with compassion and understanding, for him to carefully take a few steps closer to Bucky and press his warm hand on the uneven patch of scars on Bucky's left shoulder. His fingers were both gentle and searing as they mapped each protruded patch of skin, each uneven shape, gentle fingertips feeling the gnarled nature of the scars.

Bucky swallowed hard, his breath stammering in his chest. An odd sense of belonging engulfed him. Steve pressed forward still, as silent and as serious as ever, taking in Bucky's form. Then, without any sort of warning, Steve sat down on the bed and pulled Bucky so close to him that Bucky couldn't do anything else but sit on Steve's lap, both of his thighs enclosing against Steve's, their groins dangerously close.

Steve's eyes were dark and heavy now as leaned forward again and gently kissed the damaged skin, his wet tongue pressing against each scar.

“Steve.” Bucky sighed the name like a reverent prayer and Steve sprawled his hands on Bucky's back, pulling his body closer still. Bucky was dizzy with this deep want to belong entirely to Steve. He let his fingers curl into Steve's hair and held tight. Time appeared to slow down in the cozy silence of the room, disturbed only by Bucky's soft sighs and Steve's hums.

“Bucky,” Steve muttered into the scared skin of his shoulder, rubbing his cheek against it, his beard tickling and marking the sensitive skin. “ _Bucky_.” He buried his nose in Bucky's chest and inhaled deeply, shuddering. In response, Bucky burrowed even deeper into him, resting his face at the juncture between Steve's shoulder and neck. “God, I fucking missed you so much.” Steve's voice was cracked open and raw. He pressed tightly against Bucky's body and shuddered again as there was no space left between their naked torsos. “You won't ever know how much I fucking missed you, how much I craved to hear your voice, to hold you like this. You can't possibly begin to comprehend how much these scars mean to me because they're a proof that you survived, that you're here with me, that I didn't lose you without even knowing.”

“Steve...”

“God fucking damn it, Bucky!” Steve tightened his grip so much so that it made Bucky dizzy with not knowing where one began and the other one ended, the words raw and full of ache between them. “Look at me,” Steve ordered, unbroken. When Bucky dared to finally leave the comfortable and safe place that he had found, he was floored by the naked desire and love – no, not yet, they still had more to move past, maybe later – _affection_ was a better word. “Buck, you're still beautiful to me. I can't begin to comprehend what you've been through. I wish I could say that we don't live in a house of mirrors kind of world, but we would both know the truth. But to me at least, your scars and your stump don't diminish who you are. Or your worth. I wish I could have the right words to tell you how much your trust means to me.”

Bucky's entire body shuddered under the overwhelming sensation of being touched so intimately. Hungry for every sensation, he hid his face in embarrassment, unable to comprehend how Steve was so accepting of the new reality of Bucky's body, the way those hands gently caressed him. Nonetheless, he shamelessly basked in it. He followed easily when Steve rearranged their bodies so they could lay down on the bed and quickly used this new position to his advantage.

He still had enough strength to pull Steve's body over his until the other man completely shielded him and then greedily demanded more kisses. He wasn't sure how this entire situation was going to go for him, but for the moment, it felt like the right thing to do. A maddening sort of pleasure coiled tight inside his belly but it wasn't about that. He let Steve kiss him deeply and hungry, a mess of tongue and teeth. He gave back just as hard, pressed just as tight.

“I missed you so much, Bucky.” Steve breathed in as he scrapped his teeth against Bucky's neck then managed to catch his eyes. The tenderness and longing in those baby blue eyes scraped Bucky raw – a new fire brew inside his stomach, licking maddeningly at his ribs, his chest filling with an overwhelming warmth. The breathlessness and tenderness of their kissing filled Bucky with the sheer need to be touched more. Kissed more. Pressed against the mattress more. He didn't want to think any more of what was going to happen with them. He didn't want to analyze every one of Steve's gestures for some hidden meaning.

Instead, he lost himself to those biting and all-encompassing kisses, the naked affection of them, giddying and overpowering, to Steve's murmurs and soft noises of pleasure, to his own moans and whimpers as he kissed back, tongue chasing the taste of Steve in his mouth, on his lips, tasting their mutual pleasure and breathing in unison.

Bucky lost himself to Steve's body and it was the sweetest surrender.

 


	6. Chapter Six

The rain began again sometime while he was still asleep. It tapped against the windows like a curious person, the night a perfect shield. Bucky opened his eyes to the gentle patter and the empty bed. He had been sleeping with his arm bent under the pillow, on his stomach, a fluffy blanket cocooning him. He was warm and comfortable. Everything smelled of Steve.

The very scent of him made Bucky close his eyes again – like an odd trip down the memory lane, he could almost picture their old apartment, Steve humming somewhere to himself, staring at a half-painted canvas. Bucky would wake up surrounded by books and sketches and he'd slip out of bed to go find his boyfriend. He'd press his sleep-warm body against Steve's like a lazy cat asking for attention. And Steve would generously offer it each time, without exception – he'd hum again and smile and turn so he could hug Bucky properly, kiss the sleep away, press his hands against the well-known ridges of Bucky's body.

There was poetry in their familiar tenderness.

Bucky's eyes fluttered open. He turned on his back, rubbed at his eyes and stood up. He checked the time on Steve's alarm clock and he was shocked to see that it was already evening. He took in the room and noticed that the baseball shirt Steve had lent him was waiting for him inconspicuously at the edge of the bed. Bucky dressed up again, mind carefully blank. When he finished, he stared at his empty sleeve, his lips curling into a brittle smile – Steve had been so gentle with his kisses, so thorough with his hands, his body a perfect shield against Bucky's doubts and fears. It wasn't more than heavy petting but it soared inside of his chest, making it burn like fire.

Bucky pressed his hand against his sternum and sucked in a shuddery breath. During his prolonged stay in the hospital, as he watched the various lights play on the ceiling – from the monitors, from the street lamps – his mind wandered back to Steve time and time again. He'd wonder what Steve's opinion might be, how he'd see the missing limb – he'd make up scenarios in which sometimes Steve would accept everything with compassion; other times, he'd observe everything from a distance with cold disdain. In those scenarios, as a response, Bucky would make up various speeches that would maddening swirl in his mind, burning hot and bitter inside of him. These made up scenarios had kept him company on those nights when the phantom pain had been at its worst.

However, not a single one of those scenarios had included the easy tenderness of Steve's acceptance, his simple and sincere words as he muttered sweet nothings into the imperfections of Bucky's new body. Steve's hands had traveled across his body, had curled on Bucky's hips with loving care. His lips had pinned Bucky to the mattress, hungry and searing.

Just like before. Just like always.

He thought this moment of devout and utter tenderness would bring more clarity. Instead, it only brought even more confusion.

Had someone told Bucky that this was going to happen today, he would have laughed in their face. But now he failed to grasp the humorous side of it, insecurity washing all over him like a tidal wave. He opened the door of Steve's bedroom and went to look for the man like he had done before, a long time ago, when they were whole and real.

Steve was on the couch in the living room with some takeout menus in his hand. He was back into his t-shirt as well and for a moment, Bucky hesitated to step further into the room. Steve was a beautiful man, whether clean-shaven or not, whether wearing smart clothes or lounging around in sweats. It used to drive Bucky insane with how little preparation Steve needed when they were about to go out as opposed to Bucky, who needed an hour just to tame his wild hair.

But as he sat there on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, lips curled slightly down and face set tight, Steve mirrored the perfect image of a lonely man – Bucky didn't know whether to blame the diffuse light around the room or its bareness.

As soon as he heard Bucky come in, however, Steve raised his eyes and a sunny smile spread across his full lips.

“I hope you're hungry. I was just about to order some food,” he said warmly, his voice smooth like good liquor.

“I need to go.” The words spilled like rocks onto the quiet surface of a lake. Steve's smile dimmed instantly and he slouched again, his entire frame poised for more rejection.

“Of course,” Steve mumbled at last when it was clear that Bucky wasn't going to expand on the idea. Bucky scuffed at the wooden floor with his socked toes and looked sideways as if the view outside would be able to provide him with a better answer. Steve put the takeout menus on the coffee table and passed his fingers through his hair. “You could eat and then leave. It doesn't have to mean anything.”

“With us, everything means _something_.” Bucky bit his lip and dared to eye Steve again. His lips curled into a brittle smile. “Especially after this afternoon.”

“Was I too pushy? Because you have to tell me if –”

“No, Steve, I promise. You weren't pushy at all. I should have worded this in a better way.” Bucky gathered his courage and went to sit down next to him on the couch. “I need to go because I have a cat and a dog. They both need to be fed and Mooney definitely needs his evening walk. I asked Katie to take him out this afternoon, but the damn dog won't go to sleep without being walked once before bed.”

“Katie?”

“My dog walker.”

“What about the cat? What's their name?”

“Britta. She's a total queen. Her claws are something to be afraid of.”

“A cat named Britta and a dog named Mooney,” Steve said and his smile reached his eyes. “You were never able to choose between cats and dogs, even when hard pressed.”

“I love them both. I have no clue why I have to pick one over other when I can have both. Call me greedy but this is who I am.”

“I'll call you softy.”

“You'll do no such thing, pal.” Bucky smiled and took in their surroundings. In the evening, with two lamps lit only, the living room seemed even more barren and solitary. Somehow it didn't sit well with Bucky to leave Steve behind, in this apartment where nothing seemed warm or welcoming. Just cold and alone. “You could come with me,” Bucky suggested. He aimed for casual but somehow it came out strangled and hesitant.

Steve startled and watched him carefully. “You mean, come to your apartment?”

“Yeah, might as well meet the kids.”

“The kids? Aw, Bucky, please tell me you talk to them in baby talk.”

“You're a punk. Some things apparently never change.”

“Yeah, some things never do, jerk.” Steve's smile was warm and kind. Bucky longed to push that wild strand of hair behind his ear if only so he could touch him once more. If only just a little.

“We'll order some pizza and maybe some garlic bread on our way so that we'll have something to eat when we get there. Then you'll come with me to walk Mooney.”

“And then?”

“Then you'll change into some sweats and make ourselves comfortable. We can even sleep together if you'd like. But that's not a euphemism to anything. Hands above the waist, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And in the morning we'll get to decide what to do after having a hearty breakfast and walking Mooney.”

“Decide what to do?” Steve asked, a little frown digging between his eyebrows.

“Yes, decide what to do.” Bucky recognized that this time around, he was in a position of power and as such he needed to assume a little responsibility. “Decide whether to try again or stop doing this for good.”

“I thought that we already did,” Steve said, all creased eyebrows and twisted mouth.

“No, we didn't.” Bucky ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “You've got to understand, Steve that this isn't so simple. There's still five years' worth of distance in between us. There's also the fact that both of us have changed in those five years, no matter how much we pretend that we haven't. And we have to think carefully about this. Because it could end up in a disaster.”

“You mean, _you_ need to think carefully about this.”

“Yes, I need that.” Bucky bit his lip before he stood up and sat across from Steve on the coffee table. He attempted to keep his demeanor as open as he could when he followed with, “I need to think about this. Because I need to be sure that this time you'll stay.”

“Buck –”

“It's not a recrimination,” Bucky said quickly, hand risen in silent supplication. “But it's a reality. That's my greatest fear: that you'll leave again. And I don't think I have enough strength to go through that heartache all over again. I need to believe that you'll be there by my side again. I need to believe that you'll stay and we'll try to work things out together.”

“And if you don't reach that conclusion, then what?”

“Then we'll stop things here.”

“What?”

“We'll need to stop before things get further and move on.” Bucky wiped at his mouth. “Maybe some things can never be picked up again.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Steve said at last as he leaned back against the couch, face set tight and mouth crumpled into unhappiness.

“But it isn't.” Bucky turned slightly away from Steve and grabbed his own knee with his clammy hand, fingers digging deep into the meat. “I need you to promise me that if I tell you to let go, then you will.”

“Buck.”

“Living in such a limbo would be terrible, Steve. For the both of us.” Bucky blinked rapidly several times. “My dad said something the other day that stuck with me. He said that I never got the closure that I needed in the aftermath of our relationship ending. I went from heartbreak to dealing with the arm, then my qualification exam and the new demands at work. There was always something stopping me from processing it the way I needed to. So maybe this is as much about getting back together as it is about getting closure.”

“So basically what you're saying is let's give each other a night and then decide.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Steve rubbed at his eyes, failing to come up with another solution not that there was one. Bucky gave him the time that he needed. “Okay, let's go then,” Steve said, at last, looking back at Bucky. “I think we can be us just for one night.”

“Did you just paraphrase David Bowie at me?”

“I think I did.”

The answering smile was luminous.

~*~

“Why is your apartment nicer than mine?” Steve said as soon as he followed Bucky inside and looked around the living room. “Though it's smaller.”

“Oh wow, I've got to hear more of this.” Bucky rolled his eyes as he took his coat off and put the bag of clothes down. As soon as he did that, Mooney attacked him, demanding attention and petting, torn between sniffing at Steve's leg and Bucky's warm hand.

“No, no, sorry.” Steve blushed heavily as he took his jacket off as well and placed his bag next to Bucky's. “That came out wrong,” he mumbled as he knelt next to Bucky and let Mooney sniff at his one hand while he scratched behind Mooney's ears with the other.

“Well, for starters, I think it looks nicer because I bothered to get my things out of storage boxes. So you know, that's always a plus.” Bucky tilted his head so he could scowl playfully at him. “Besides, I don't want to hear any home design critique from you, pal, until I see all those boxes disappear from your living room and at least one potted plant.”

“You have no potted plants, Buck.”

“But I haven't got any boxes either.” Bucky smirked. “Besides, you haven't seen my kitchen yet. So shut up.”

They both got up as Mooney lost interest in their petting and returned to his seat on the couch, going back to licking his paws. Britta hadn't bothered to get off from the window ledge where her cushion was. Not that Bucky expected any acknowledgment from her part.

“So welcome to casa de Barnes, as I'd like to call it.”

“You can't possibly be _that_ cheesy.”

“I'm afraid I can, pal, as this apartment officially belongs to me.”

“Oh wow, Buck, this is so awesome.”

“I thought so, too.”

“It looks lovely, Bucky,” Steve said, taking in the entire room until his eyes landed on the upright piano. A shadow fell upon his eyes as he stared at it. “You kept it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugged as he followed Steve's stare and looked fondly at the piano. “I couldn't bear the thought of giving it away. I just couldn't.”

They got closer to it and Steve caressed it with his thick fingers reverently, as if one simple touch might break it into pieces. Bucky's throat clenched – the impossibility of playing properly tore him to pieces time and time again. And relearning to play with just one hand had been pure agony. Luckily, his mother had supported him and had asked her fellow colleagues that taught music at her school what he should do. The music teacher had recommended some useful books that helped Bucky get back in shape as much as he could with one arm missing.

“Do you still play it?” Steve asked gently, his eyes still glancing at the piano that shared so many memories with them.

“Yeah.” Bucky felt like an impostor. “I mean, I try at least, but mostly the melodies come incomplete. I didn't realize how much stuff I took for granted until I suddenly found myself in the unable to do them.”

“I can empathise with that.” Steve looked back at Bucky. “Hey, do you remember that time when we moved in our first apartment and we hired those guys to move the piano but they almost dropped it on our new neighbor?”

“And then he made that horrified sound like I was going to spend nights keeping everyone awake in the building.” Bucky chuckled. “Was it Mr. Stevens? Mr. Simpson?”

“Simmons.” Steve chuckled. “I think that guy hated us for the entire three years and a half we've spent there.”

“Yeah, being gay hadn't helped either.”

“Remember how shocked he was you were studying to be an engineer?”

“I remember how disgusted he was at your art.” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Oh, man, and the time he made that horrible complaint against the Pacewicz family? Jesus, that guy was an asshole.”

“He really was. Maybe because he was alone.”

“Oh, don't get me started on that.” Bucky turned away from the piano as the temptation to press the keys turned greater. “How's your shoulder, by the way?” he asked, cleverly changing the subject. Steve allowed it, following Bucky to the couch. Bucky turned on the TV and began channel-surfing.

“It's fine.” Steve pressed his hand against it and rubbed gently. “Or as fine as it can be at the moment. The doctor told me I could lose the sling but it's still painful and I need to take some painkillers when it becomes too much.”

The intercom rang and Bucky smiled. “That must be our food.”

“Let me get that, please.”

“Don't even think about it, pal.” Bucky scowled at him. “I invited you here so no point in arguing.” Bucky let the pizza delivery guy come in then took his wallet out to pay for it. By the time the guy reached his door, Bucky was ready with the necessary cash to pay the bill and tip.

“Wanna make yourself more comfortable while I get everything we need?” Bucky asked when he returned with the boxes. He smiled shyly when he caught Steve playing with Mooney and one of his chewing toys.

“Yeah, I think it's a good idea.”

Bucky pointed to one of the doors and said, “That's my bedroom.” Then pointed to the other one. “That's the bathroom. Go change into something more comfortable and I'll get everything ready here.”

“What about you?”

“I'm fine as I am, but thanks for asking.” Bucky winked at him and Steve blushed again. He grabbed his bag and disappeared in Bucky's bedroom. Bucky chuckled and shook his head as he set the pizza boxes on the table.

He was still wearing Steve's clothes and he didn't intend to change. There was a certain odd familiarity with wearing his clothes that dug up memories of other similar nights, comfortable and domestic. Bucky had missed those the most.

It took him three trips to the kitchen to bring everything they needed.

“Hey, stop sniffing them, pal. You're not getting any.” Bucky wiggled his finger at Mooney, who pretended to be offended and let his ears flop down. “Don't even bother. I know all your tricks. But you're not Lucky, pal, and I'm not planning on letting you become him either. Your food is in your bowl.” Mooney whined forlornly but Bucky ignored him and looked at Britta, who was stretching elegantly. “And your food awaits, Your Majesty.”

He pulled his phone out and shot a quick text to Clint explaining the situation and letting him know he'd call the following day, ignoring the messages from Natasha. He knew that she was worried about him but tonight it was all about him and Steve. Tomorrow was going to be another day altogether.

By the time Steve returned, all soft-looking and smiling, Buck was sitting on the couch, the TV playing a movie on Netflix and food spread out on the coffee table, everything they needed to have a comfortable night in.

“Oh, just what the doctor ordered,” Steve mumbled as soon as he sat on the couch and opened the lid of one of the boxes.

“I honestly don't think Dr. Reyes mentioned pizza in your discharge letter.”

“That's because you didn't read it.”

“How convenient.”

“Convenient for me, you mean.”

“Whatever.”

Steve gave him a heart-stopping smile and Bucky just shook his head before both of them dug into the pizza. The sensation of _deja vu_ must have hit them both at the same time as they stared at each other for a brief moment with pizza slices half-way to their mouths. They must have looked ridiculous, frozen like in one of those silent comedy movies. It was their reciprocal complicit smile that broke the spell and let them return to the familiarity of their circumstances.

They ate in silence for the most part under Mooney's watchful gaze. Poor guy, he had been hoping for a little bit of cheese to fall his way but Bucky made sure none would. He would have had to banish Mooney to another room as his farts were worse than toxic waste.

Steve was the one that cleaned up afterwards. “It's the least I could do, Buck. Please, let me.”

Bucky nodded and chose another movie on Netflix, but they abandoned it half-way through because the day had been emotionally draining and they were both exhausted.

Five years apart and their night routine still hadn't changed. Steve still went to the bathroom first while Bucky prepared the bed. He changed the sheets quickly then changed into some sweats of his own and a threadbare t-shirt that did nothing to hide the stump. Nevertheless, for the first time in his recent memory, Bucky didn't have to worry about that.

As soon as Steve got out, he went in and washed his face with as much cold water as he could stand, ignoring his flushed cheeks as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hand shook somewhat – he was nervous and he didn't know why. Steve hadn't pushed for another touch or kiss since they returned to Bucky's apartment and he was sure that Steve wasn't going to push Bucky to do anything he was uncomfortable with.

“Stop it,” he whispered, staring back to his reflection. “This doesn't have to mean anything. You can just get closure and move on.”

He wiped his face and walked out of the bathroom. In the bedroom, Steve was already on the right side of the bed, laying down above the covers and scrolling through something on his phone, Mooney in between his legs as if he had always slept there. Britta was at the edge of the bed, seemingly content to observe the two chuckleheads from afar. The sight was so perfectly domestic that Bucky's chest filled with longing.

“You still sleep on the left side of the bed?” Steve asked as he raised his eyes from his phone.

“Luckily for you, yeah, I still do.” Bucky went to the living room to check that everything was switched off and the door was locked. In the meantime, Steve had switched off the main light, leaving on just the lamp by Bucky's side. He'd also gotten under the covers and Mooney had still chosen to sit between his legs.

“Traitor,” Bucky mumbled mostly to himself. Steve still heard him, chuckling lightly and shaking his head. Bucky got on the bed as well and switched off the light, trying to settle for the night. They were both on their backs, staring at the ceiling – every now and then the headlights of cars passing by painted the ceiling into their yellow shade. Bucky smiled as he listened to Mooney's soft snores.

“Well, this is awkward,” Steve pointed out when it was clear that neither of them could find a more comfortable position. Bucky shifted just close enough that the fine hairs of their arms touched. Immediately, Steve brought them closer still.

“It is, isn't it?” Bucky tossed back. He turned his head towards Steve and smiled cheekily. “And I suppose you want us to do something about it.”

“Well, we could spoon.”

“No one says it like that. It sounds weird, Steve.”

“It doesn't.” Steve grinned. “Do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?”

“Why do _I_ have to choose?”

“Because I've offered. Plus, I don't care much whether I'm the little or the big spoon.” Steve paused and Bucky was sure that meant something disparaging at his person was about to come out. Of course, Steve didn't disappoint. “On the other hand, you do look like a guy who cares.”

“What does that even mean?” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Is there like a research based on how people like to spoon each other?”

“There must be,” Steve said and chuckled. “At the end of the day, people have studied weirder shit.”

“Oh, yeah. Remember that study with the medical students or something and prisons?”

“That was really creepy and terrible and I really don't want to remember that before going to sleep.”

“Don't worry, Steve. I'll protect you.” Bucky smiled softly and suddenly a hesitant look came over Steve's face, like a guy on the edge of a precipice about to make a plunge.

“My hero,” he whispered affectionately, his voice slightly strained.

“And don't you forget it.”

“You ruined all my fantasies about spooning.” Steve yawned loudly as he tried to cover it with a hand.

“I'm afraid to ask what kind of fantasies you had.”

“Just come here, you jerk. I'm really tired.” Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky's waist and pulled him close to his body, chest to back, legs perfectly intertwined.

They perfectly fit. As always.

Why did the small things seem to matter the most in a relationship? It never seemed to be about the grand romantic gestures but rather the simple ones born out of routine and knowing each other deeply, learning something new every day. The casual affectionate touches while one passed by the other, spooning and sweet kisses in the night. The silent conversations at a party, the mutual exasperation at each other's bad habits. The whispered secrets, the vulnerability of being open with someone who had no other obligation of loyalty except that of being in love. The magic of being in a relationship with Steve was made of all these little things that had brightened Bucky's lifetime and time again. And he was finally experiencing them again.

In the darkness of the room, with Steve breathing softly at his back, each puff of air caressing Bucky's neck, Bucky found himself brave enough to whisper, “I missed this.”

“I missed this too, Buck.” Steve pressed a tender kiss on the back of his neck. Goosebumps immediately bloomed over his skin like flowers on the soul. Bucky's hand tightened on Steve's arm. He felt like he was unraveling at the edges. “There's not a single moment since I left that I didn't miss you,” Steve said.

 _Then why did you leave?_ Bucky wanted to ask, but the question was redundant at this point. The reality of them had changed so much over the past few years that answers couldn't be found easily even if they did decide to start all over again.

“Want some gossip from my work?” Bucky asked softly, unable to rehash the same issue again. Not when they were so comfortable.

“Tell me everything.”

~*~

“It's your turn to make breakfast, jolly giant,” Bucky mumbled in the morning, still half asleep and half buried under Steve's warm, sleepy body. It was cozy under the covers and the curtains successfully kept the daylight at bay. Steve groaned in response and turned his back to Bucky. Bucky chased after him with sleepy grunts and burrowed himself into his boyfriend's back.

“Babe, please,” Bucky whined. But he pulled the covers carefully around them so they wouldn't be cold. He kissed Steve between his shoulder blades then pressed his forehead against Steve's back and fell in a light doze again.

“Bacon, eggs sunny side up?” Steve mumbled after a while, his words barely recognizable with his face completely buried in his pillow. Bucky pressed himself against Steve harder, grateful for the warmth.

“And toast, please.” But he whined when Steve made no move of waking up. “Please, babe, I'm hungry.”

“Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up.” Steve sat up, scratching at his beard, long hair in adorable disarray, and Bucky burrowed deeper into the warmth of the sheets.

It took less than a second for the reality of their lives to come crashing down like a freight train. Heart unexpectedly heavy, Bucky opened his eyes to stare at Steve's back. He was still half-way out of bed, back stiff, shoulders coiled tight with tension. Bucky fisted the duvet into his palm and squeezed tight, throat suddenly locked, chest burning like fire. Shame burnt hot and bitter inside his belly. He felt like smothering himself with a pillow.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled, flushed with shame, staring at Steve's stiff posture, ready to break. “I shouldn't have opened my mouth.”

“It's fine.” It most definitely didn't sound like it was fine.

“It's not. I thought – God, I thought we were back at our place and then –” Bucky stood up as well and leaned against the wooden headboard of the bed. “Shit, I'm sorry.” He rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the way Steve didn't even turn to look at him. The sudden distance between them made a cold sweat break out on his skin. He made an aborted attempt at touching that stiff back. “Steve –”

“Don't apologize, Buck. You'll make me feel worse than I already do.” Steve turned his head slightly so he could stare back at Bucky. “You weren't the only one. I thought we were back there too.” He turned away again, head now slightly bowed. “Back in Chicago, especially in the beginning, I woke up many times expecting to find you by my side or in the kitchen, watching the coffee maker or already on your way to inhaling your second cup.”

“Steve.”

“I remember even now,” Steve continued as if he didn't even hear Bucky, “the way you'd press your body against mine, the smell of coffee in that tiny kitchen, the smell of _you_ in the morning, during the day. When we made love.”

“It's too early for this.” Bucky wiped at his mouth crumpled in bitterness and sadness.

Steve turned completely to him, eyes ablaze, hands white-knuckled on the bed. “You said you'd get to decide. You said today.”

“You act like this is easy for me,” Bucky said, willing for the heartbreak of it all to go away. “You act like everything rests in my hands, like I know what I should do already.”

“No, Buck, no. It's not like that.” Steve passed his fingers through his hair, then he grabbed his knees and held on tight as if preparing for a punch. He looked straight back into Bucky's eyes. “I just – I thought so long and hard about this moment. _If_ I'd ever be lucky enough to get this moment. But nothing was ever satisfactory. Nothing seemed to suffice.” Steve's shoulders slumped in despondency. “I don't have the words. I don't understand why you think I have all the words.”

“Shouldn't you have them though?” Bucky almost sneered. “Shouldn't you try hard enough to convince me? To say the words that you're supposed to say.”

“But I don't know what they are, Buck.” The quiet desperation of his tone slammed into Bucky like a wall. It made him clench his teeth so hard he could hear them grinding against each other.

“Then I'll use something else to make you understand my position,” Bucky said abruptly. He stood up so fast, he almost lost his balance and fell off the bed. At the last second, he managed to readjust and almost sprinted into the living room, startling Mooney, who gave him a whiny yelp.

Steve followed him uncomprehendingly and Bucky made him sit down on the couch. He went and sat down at the piano and opened the lid. Immediately, a sense of loss stuck to his ribs – he stared at the notes and took a deep breath as his fingers barely hovered above the piano keys.

His mother had insisted that both him and Becca learn an instrument. He went for the piano and Becca went for the cello. Bucky bit his bottom lip hard as he stared at those monochrome keys. And now, instead of associating it with those sunny afternoons when he and Becca played together for their parents, he associated it with Steve and the rapture with which he would always listen to Bucky playing. The way he'd come and sit reverently next to him after he'd play the last few notes, the way their bodies would press against each other, warm and hard. The way their hands would shake as their fingers would intertwine. They'd kiss and kiss and kiss. Right there. In front of that upright piano. With wonder and love.

“Buck?”

“I know it's stupid,” Bucky's voice cracked open, not daring to glance at Steve. “I know in this day and age, the love we had for each other would have been called co-dependant or cheesy or plain silly. But those seven years with you were the happiest I've ever been. Because you were there for me. I never wished or desired for anyone else.” Steve made a sound like Bucky had gutted him, leaving him wide-open for all the world to see him bleed. Bucky blinked several times as his hand hovered over the keys. “I know it's not healthy to love a person so much but –” Bucky peered through his eyelashes at Steve, taking in Steve's agonized expression, “– I never really stopped.”

His fingers dropped softly on the keys and the first notes of Lichner's _Forget Me Not_ floated between them. His playing sounded shaky and Bucky stopped, clenching his fist several times, shaking his hand a little bit before starting over.

The forlorn notes began again, this time braver. They were still hesitant and the space between them was sometimes a deep chasm, nearly impossible to cross, but they still surrounded Steve and Bucky with all the burden of their shared past and their heartache caused by the break-up. And then, like magic, the music began to flow more gracefully between them, and Bucky's heart soared inside of him. The song felt like it was clawing itself out of his chest, especially as the last part began. The hesitancy and the silence in the piece remained there just like the five years of separation between them. Then at last, completely spent, Bucky pressed gently the final keys and silence surrounded them.

“Forget me not...” Steve whispered, the words sounding like a sob dragged from the deepest corners of his being. Bucky closed the lid over the keys and rested his hand on it, thankful that they still spoke their magic to him.

The world remained the same. The rain kept on falling, the cars outside kept on passing by tires spraying water from puddles. People were still walking around on the sidewalk below, and Britta still sat at the window, watching the world as impassively as always. And Mooney was still napping quietly on the couch.

Big revelations dropped like little rocks onto the surface of a quiet lake, it seemed to Bucky – with barely a ripple. The world wasn't going to stop just because Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were trying to find a way back to each other.

But when Steve knelt at Bucky's feet and rested his head on Bucky's knee, his hand automatically curled at the back of Steve's neck and gently squeezed. Bucky couldn't dare to look at him as he ran his fingers through the silky strands of hair. Steve's beard pricked through the thin fabric at his sweats but Bucky didn't care. He stared out on the window and caressed Steve's head again and again, giving him time, for those slight hitches of breath to calm down, to float away from them.

“I never stopped loving you, Bucky,” Steve said, at last, his voice clogged and terrible sounding. “I left because I loved you and I returned because I love you. Because I wanted to find my way back to you, though I am unworthy.”

“You know what I say about people being worthy of someone else,” Bucky could barely mutter through his tight throat.

“But I am really not, Buck.” The sentence came garbled and painfully tight. “What was the point of me leaving if I've been miserable all this time? I abandoned you – it felt that way at the time and it feels that way even now. Fuck! Fuck, goddamn it!” Steve grabbed a fistful of Bucky's sweats and allowed himself to break apart at long last. “I'm sorry, Buck. I'm so goddamn sorry I left. That I brought us apart when I should have stayed and fought for you harder.” Steve wasn't a pretty crier. He never had been. His face would redden and tiny splotches would splay on his cheeks as if he'd had an allergic reaction to something. But his eyes were still the most wonderful shade of blue Bucky had ever seen.

Staring at each other, open and raw, in that very moment, Bucky _knew_. And the inevitability of it all made Bucky smile as he carded his fingers through Steve's hair and tilt his head just so they could stare at each other, both heartbroken and whole again. The world passed them by, but _their_ world shrunk to the space between their lips.

“You left so you could learn to stay,” Bucky said with a smile.

The kiss was a sudden clash of lips and teeth and Bucky abandoned Steve's hair so he could fist his hand into Steve's t-shirt and hold on and on and on. A shock of pleasure pulsed throughout his body as Steve made his way between Bucky's thighs and tugged Bucky closer to him, lips hungry and demanding. Steve kissed as if he wanted to devour Bucky, like there wasn't any other way to breathe except with Bucky's kisses. He let out a small moan of pleasure as he dared to kiss back with enough abandon to put all the lovers of the world to shame. He licked across the fullness of Steve's lips with searing desire. It was aggressive enough to be called desperate.

But as they sealed their lips again, Bucky couldn't help but shudder in pleasure as lust, deep and utterly alluring, jolted through his body and made him moan in pleasure again. He opened his mouth like he was starved and Steve clamped his hands harder on his warm skin as if trying to keep Bucky there forever.

“Let me love you again,” Steve mumbled into the skin of Bucky's neck, scraping his teeth over Bucky's pulse point. “I won't leave this time, Buck. I won't run away anymore.” Steve nipped at Bucky's earlobe and Bucky gave a startled moan. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left. God, I should have never left.”

The sheer passion of the surging kiss that followed was just as good as their very first kiss, for it marked a new beginning.


	7. An Epilogue of a Sort

“Honey, I'm home!” Bucky yelled as he shut the door closed behind him and plonked his messenger bag on the floor. He smiled a little when he noticed that he was the only one home besides mom. That meant his plan had worked out perfectly, having left work earlier today specifically so he'd be able to talk to mom in private before dad and Becca joined them.

“Honey doesn't live here, I'm afraid,” his mom grumbled from the living room and Bucky chuckled. He toed off his shoes and hung his coat before making his way to the living room where his mom was reading a book, heels tucked in under her and her lap covered with a fleecy blanket. A cup of aromatic tea was still steaming next to her on the coffee table.

The entire picture reminded Bucky of those Sunday afternoons when mom read quietly while Becca and Bucky would be in and out of the house all day long. A lot of those times, Dad had been there too, on the other side of the couch, reading his newspapers or doing crosswords, his own cup of coffee growing cold as he concentrated.

“Hey, Mom.” He leaned and kissed her cheek before slumping into the armchair across from her, suddenly nervous. He had kind of prepared a speech in his head while on the way over here, but he wasn't sure that it was going to work. His mom could be a tough audience when she wanted to be. Especially about things that she didn't like.

“Stop stalling and tell me why you're here so early,” Mom said, her eyes not leaving the book.

“What, I can't be early just to spend time with you?” Bucky asked a bit hurt even though it was the truth. “Maybe I just wanted to see how you are, ever thought of that?”

“Bucky, I carried you nine months in my womb and raised you,” Mom answered as she turned the page. “I should say that I know you quite well. Besides, you aren't being subtle right now,” she added as an after-thought as she finally marked the page where she was, ready to offer her attention. “What –” She froze as soon as she looked at him, her words dying before reaching her lips.

She stared at Bucky in silence, laser-sharp, searching for an answer to which Bucky wasn't sure she had even asked a question. Mom looked at him for what felt like ages, her brown eyes getting softer and softer as if she had access to Bucky's soul and whatever she saw made her love him even more. Bucky wouldn't know. Motherly love had remained a mystery throughout his whole life. Her uncanny way of telling when something was wrong with him or Becca was remarkable and Bucky was consistently impressed by it.

Abruptly, she covered her mouth with both hands and she started to cry.

“Mom,” Bucky said alarmed. Immediately, he stood up so he could sit next to her and pull her into his chest. “Mom, what's going on? Why are you crying?” But she remained silent as her hitched breath and soft sobs tore into Bucky. “Mom, please, don't cry. Please, don't.” He hadn't seen her cry since that time at the hospital when she and Dad had looked down at him as if they were going to lose him. “Did I do something wrong? Mom, did something happen?”

“No, no,” she said finally, gently patting his back and pulling slightly away without breaking the hug. Instead, she softly cupped Bucky's cheek and watched him carefully with all the gentleness of a mother's love. “You did nothing wrong. But I looked at you and –” she stopped, clearing her throat, eyes wet again, “– it was like looking at my little boy again.” His mom began crying again. “You have that little mischievous glint in your eyes again and I – I'm so grateful for that. I never thought I'd ever see it again. What happened, Bucky? What or who put that little glimmer back in your eyes?”

“It was Steve.”

“Steve?” She leaned back a little, not letting Bucky go, her hand as anchoring as ever. “Steve Rogers?”

“Yes.” For fear that his mom might pull away, Bucky took her hand that was cupping his cheek away and kissed it gently before holding tight to it. He faced his mom straight on, knowing that he had to make his next words count. He took a deep breath and said, “Last Saturday, I met with him and we spent the weekend together.” Bucky gently squeezed his mom's hand when she opened her mouth; she nodded carefully and let him carry on. “We talked about my arm and about our break-up, about our past and our future. It was a difficult weekend, Mom. For both of us.”

“And you decided to give him another chance,” his mom came to the natural conclusion, keeping her voice carefully level.

“Yes.” Bucky sighed and leaned back a little, still holding his mom's hand. That was it. He told her everything. Well, the abridged version anyway – the way he and Steve had rehashed the past and had spoken about their feelings openly. He didn't mention the way they spent half an hour in front of his door the previous Sunday, nuzzling and kissing each other. The fact that he got the chance to relearn the shape of Steve's eyebrow, the curve of his lips, the scrape of his beard, and the dip of his throat was a privilege onto itself.

“I know what you're gonna say –”

“No, I don't think you do.” His mom said gently and held on to his hand. “I mean, I know I'm not ready to receive that boy back with open arms. Not any time soon anyway.” She stared at him with the same bluntness that she always reserved for serious occasions. “But more than anything, Bucky, I want you to be happy. If you think you've made the right decision, then I'll fully support you.”

“Just don't bring Steve to dinner any time soon. Got it,” Bucky replied slightly – okay, maybe _a lot_ – sarcastically.

“Bucky.” She sighed and patted his hand. “You'll see if you ever want kids of your own that it's not that easy. I'm not saying you don't get to bring him back here ever again. But he did hurt my baby after all. I'm just saying, give me time to readjust to the thought of the two of you getting back together. And in the meantime, please, take it as slow as you can.”

“Mom, snails are moving faster than we do.” Bucky's smile was wobbly.

“That's always good to hear.” She watched him carefully and then reached for him with one hand. She cupped his cheek again, her thumb pressing softly against his cheekbone. “But I'll tell you something else. He's half-way forgiven if he already managed to put that light back into your eyes. I just hope that this time he'll safeguard it better. And I hope that you will both be happy.”

“Thank you, mom,” he mumbled, all choked up. He pressed his face into her shoulder because he seriously didn't expect for this conversation to go so well.

“Who died?” They heard suddenly from the doorway.

“Dad!” Bucky exclaimed, startled. Mom raised her head to scowl at him the way only she could.

“What?” His dad raised his hands in a half-aborted attempt to defend himself. “I'm just saying, I hope it's not your cousin Vernon because he still owes me a hundred bucks from last year's Super Bowl.”

“I was having a meaningful conversation with my son and you ruined it,” Mom replied as she wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks.

“Oh, he is _your_ son now?” Dad entered the room and flopped down on the armchair previously occupied by Bucky. “I always loved the fact that he's your son when he does something good. But when he's a little shit, suddenly he takes after my family.”

“I usually blame the both of you for my short-comings. Well, mostly you, Dad,” Bucky said.

“Like now, for instance,” Dad pointed out, making both of them chuckle. “But seriously, nobody died, right?”

“No, Dad, nobody died. But wouldn't you feel bad if someone had?”

“Well, not if it was Vernon.”

“You have a heart of stone,” Bucky said, shaking his head but unable to contain his mischievous grin. His mom groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“Dear Lord, help me,” she mumbled. Dad looked unconcerned.

“I'll have you know that I have my heart in the right place. Maybe you need a hand to learn better heart puns.”

“One day I will, just so you can eat your heart out.”

“You can try your hand at it, but I can tell you even now, you're going to fail.”

“Stop it, the both of you.” His mom pushed the blanket away as Bucky continued the minor staring contest he was having with his dad. “And you ask yourself, George, why I always blame your side of the family.” She took her cup of tea and her book and made her way to the kitchen. “By the way, we're going out tonight. I don't feel like cooking.”

“Italian food?”

“Yes.”

“Hell yeah!” Bucky fist pumped the air and smirked at his dad. “I'm gonna eat so many breadsticks. So many. That is, of course, Dad, unless you have a change of heart and want to go somewhere else.”

“Hands down, I think your mom made the best decision today.”

Their banter lasted for as long as it took Mom to return with a freshly brewed cup of tea and a fierce scowl. And if at dinner, he casually mentioned to Dad and Becca that he was getting back with Steve and they accepted it without much pomp or ado, no one had to know.

Well, except Steve of course.

~*~*~

Bucky rolled his shoulders one more time before he concentrated on his task again. He spent all of yesterday evening helping Steve assemble his bookcase and arranging his books. He smiled when he remembered the sense of pride they shared when they looked at the finished product of their work. The bookcase now dominated the wall where there used to be only boxes. In fact, there were no more boxes in sight, the living room finally a comfortable and welcoming place. They had even hung up a few photos and some of Steve's paintings.

Bucky stared at the sketch and smiled. They were taking it slow, but it was the best kind of slow, with sweet kisses and hot embraces and soft conversations well into the night.

“You're sickening,” Clint said, rudely interrupting his daydreaming. Bucky looked up from his calculations to scowl at his best friend.

“I'm not sickening.”

“Yes, you are.” Clint flopped on the chair across of Bucky's desk and rolled his eyes. “God, I had forgotten how annoying you are when you're in love.”

“Shut up.”

“Great come back, Chuckles.”

“Whatever.” Bucky stared at his best friend. “Also, _what_ are you wearing?” Clint had on the most ghastly shirt he'd even seen – purple with some yellow flowers that made him look slightly deranged. Or a character from a seedy seventies comedy. It clashed impossibly with his black slacks.

“Shut up,” Clint said, twirling one of Bucky's pens between his fingers. “I'll have you know that it was your Grandma Hubbard that gave me this.”

“And you should burn it. Like immediately.”

“Puh-lease, I think it looks quite fetching on me.”

“Seriously,” Bucky dead-panned.

“Seriously.” Clint grinned back. “Also, as the good friend you pretend to be, you should tolerate my shirt the way I tolerate your lovey-dovey eyes.”

“I don't make lovey-dovey eyes,” Bucky huffed, pouting as he leaned back in his chair. It only made Clint chuckle.

“Right, keep telling yourself that, tough guy.” Clint sobered up a little. “I presume you saw Steve yesterday evening.”

“I did.” Bucky looked out on the window of his office. “I helped him assemble the bookcase and we cleaned his living room. It was nice. We – we're taking it slow. But it's good. It's really good to be back with him.”

“How slow?” Clint's question returned Bucky's attention to him. “When you say _slow_ ,” Clint added when he saw that Bucky didn't understand his question, “how slow are we talking about?”

“We're not moving in together any time soon, Clint, stop worrying.” Bucky leaned forward against his desk and closed the lid of his laptop. “We've barely started dating again. Get to know each other again. It's going slow but steady.”

“And that's fine by him?”

“It's fine by him and it's fine by me if it's any consolation.” Bucky stared down at his friend. “Why the sudden third-degree?”

“Well, I brought a little something for you.” Clint shrugged, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Though I'm not sure it's relevant anymore. Or maybe, it's relevant all the more.”

“You're rambling,” Bucky said gently and smiled.

“I am, aren't I?” Clint shook his head and took out a pair of tickets. “These are from Nat. She thinks you should have a look. She suggested we go during our lunch break. Apparently, there's something you should see there.”

Bucky extended his hand and Clint gave him one of the tickets that bore the mark of a gallery in Upper East Side. Straight away, Bucky realized that it was the gallery that Steve mentioned some of his paintings were exhibited at. Bucky shook his head in amusement at the clever way in which Nat was trying to make herself heard – even if it was through a pair of tickets to an exhibition. Bucky and Nat had a few strong conversations in the meantime – she had her concerns over Steve that Bucky had to listen to because he knew they came from a place of genuine concern. But she was also forced to listen to his point of view and in the end, she decided that she'd threaten Steve with breaking his legs and be done with it.

Well, if she thought that he needed to see that exhibition, then there was something important there. He looked back at Clint and felt a wave of gratefulness washing over him.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don't thank me.” Clint pouted as he threw the pen up and down. “Also, she said that next Saturday, when she's back from Boston, she wants us all to have dinner.”

“Us all?”

“Yes, the usual gang plus Steve.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah, that's what I said as well.” Clint stopped playing with the pen and looked seriously at Bucky. “Look, I'm glad you two are back together. I really am. I haven't seen you this happy in quite a few years. I just want you to take it slowly.” Clint raised a placating hand when Bucky opened his mouth. “I know that you're both grownups and more than capable of taking your own decisions. I just – I just want you to be careful. To keep taking it slowly, even when things between the two of you get inevitably better. It's best for the _both_ of you.”

Bucky opened his mouth again, ready to defend himself, only to close it properly and mull over what his best friend was trying to say. He'd need to get used to the fact that his friends and family were going to continue being worried about Steve and Bucky's relationship for a long time. It was justified concern. Besides, Bucky would have been a hypocrite if he hadn't admitted that he was kept awake by his own worries too sometimes. Nonetheless, he was convinced that he had made the correct decision and that certainty would never disappear.

“Thank you, Clint.” Bucky smiled softly. “You're a good friend.”

“I'm an awesome friend.” He preened like Lucky would when he managed to steal a slice of pizza in spite of Nat's vigilance.

“Yes, you are.”

“Now, come on, let's see what's that exhibit all about.”

“Please, change the shirt,” Bucky said as he stood up and grabbed his wallet and his keys. “You look ridiculous.”

“Shut up!” Clint stood up as well and bumped their shoulders playfully. “I look ridiculously handsome and you know it.”

“I need to have a talk with Grandma Hubbard about the presents she gives you.”

“No!” Clint said horrified. “She's the only one to remember my preference for purple.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. But your whole wardrobe can't be made of purple clothes only.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?” Clint snickered.

“Because I said so.”

“That's not even a valid argument.”

“It is if I say so.”

Wanda shook her head as they greeted her then continued to bicker like an old married couple all the way to the elevators. If Bucky had paid attention, he would have noticed how Wanda's eyes softened and her lips curled into a kind smile. Perhaps he would have even noticed how some of their colleagues smiled at them as they passed them by, content to see them just as energetic as in those older days when they had been at the beginning of their internship.

Alas, Bucky was more interested in constantly keeping a verbal advantage against his friend.

~*~*~

The gallery was quiet, soft piano music floating around the room. The lady curator had been more than happy to show them the exhibition of contemporary artists and she didn't seem deterred even when they mentioned that they were on their lunch break and just wanted to see just the paintings of Steve Rogers, having heard some nice things about it from a friend.

“Oh yes, Mr. Rogers,” the curator said and smiled. “He's such a nice gentleman and his brush technique is absolutely exquisite. Please, follow me.” She gestured towards another part of the gallery and Bucky and Clint followed her, glancing every now and then to the other exhibits, some of them incredibly beautiful.

“This is it.” Bucky and Clint followed the lady into a smaller room but very well lit. The curator pointed to a series of small paintings, seven in total, exhibited carefully in the semi-circular room. “The artist called the series _Happy Moments._ Each painting carefully captures a single happy moment. The artist drew inspiration from his life and that of his friends. You can observe the elegance with which he depicts each moment to mark a specific time of the day. Mr. Rogers seems fascinated with the mundane side of human life, but no less deserving of being captured by art.”

The curator spoke softly as she continued lecturing them on colors and brushes as Bucky took in each painting. Some of the people captured in them were familiar. In one of them, Sarah Rogers looked out on a window over Brooklyn, a half-opened book still in her lap. Maybe it was the colors that Steve had chosen or the way the view seemed indistinct, but it hit Bucky like a punch to the solar plexus – the melancholy and love shining through that silent figure forever immortalized in that small moment were overpowering.

There was also one of Sam and Riley, having breakfast or lunch in a small café, sunlight spilling mesmerizingly around them. Sam was drinking his coffee and staring out on the window, his chin resting on his hand while Riley read a newspaper beside him. They seemed to be waiting for their order. It was a serene scene with both of the subjects again slightly turned away from the gaze of the onlooker.

Then Bucky froze in front of a painting slightly bigger than the others. Named _Happiness at Its Finest,_ the painting showcased two men kissing at twilight, Luna Park glowing in the background, a half-moon dominating the swirling sky. Bucky's hand trembled as he almost reached for the smooth canvas. Though the two men were turned away from the viewer, Bucky knew that they were _them_ – Steve and Bucky on that day when Steve asked him to move in together once they finished college. They'd spent their day on Coney Island, getting fat on burgers and cotton candy, on laughs and stolen kisses. Looking at that painting, Bucky could almost hear the music in the background, could almost taste the flavor of the cotton candy, sticky and sweet on their lips, hands tight against each other, sweaty and tired.

“Ah, yes.” The curator startled Bucky, who swallowed hard several times, overcome with emotion. “It's a really lovely painting, isn't it?” she asked gently, not taking her eyes from it. “Unfortunately, this one together with the one of the artist's mom are the only ones not for sale. It was a hit with our attendees on the exhibition's opening night but despite several offers, Mr. Rogers refused to sell it.”

“You mean to say that all of them are sold?” Clint asked. He returned to Bucky's side and squeezed his shoulder.

“Almost. This one,” the curator pointed to the painting in front of them, “together with the other two,” and she gestured to the painting of Sarah Rogers and a solitary woman watching the sea from a cliff, “have been selected for a future exhibition at MOMA, which will take place next year.”

“That's incredible.”

“Indeed, it is.” Someone called for the curator, who excused herself with a polite smile as another client demanded her attention.

Bucky couldn't break his gaze away from the painting. _How much time we've wasted!_ He kept on thinking. How much time they could have been together, but they hadn't because they'd been too scared and too inexperienced and too damn in love to sort out their issues. Yet that love shone on. The painting was a proof of that.

Bucky turned his suddenly wet eyes towards Clint and whispered fiercely, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, pal. You're welcome.” Clint patted his shoulder and didn't let go. They stood in front of the painting for a long time, content to observe it, taking in each detail. In that moment, Bucky was filled with confidence that they would be able to figure out how to piece a new life together out of the ashes of the happiest moments of the old life.

~*~*~

Bucky parked the car in the customers' parking lot and looked at himself in the rear-view mirror, trying to tame his wild hair before going in. He was supposed to meet Steve for dinner and a movie. He bit his bottom lip, trying to tamp down the smile that threatened to take over his lips. He'd been smiling non-stop ever since reuniting with Steve, which was more than four months ago now, and people were getting really tired of it. Bucky knew they were just pretending to be tired of it because they sure as hell wanted to know every single detail of his relationship with Steve and asked about his relationship instead of his work projects constantly. He suspected that half of his office had ended up going to that gallery in Upper East Side if Bucky were to judge by their knowing smiles and polite inquiries.

Bucky got out of the car and looked up at the dark sky. No rain for the past two days, though that bitter wind had shown up again. He pulled his coat tighter to his chest and made sure the empty sleeve was carefully tucked inside the pocket. He locked the doors and made his way to the entrance of the restaurant.

Tucked in a little-known corner of Dumbo, the restaurant boasted a friendly and romantic atmosphere and excellent Italian food. Bucky didn't care much about what he was going to eat as long as he was with Steve. There were a couple of tables outside and surprisingly, they were all occupied.

As Bucky approached, he caught a glimpse of Steve at a table inside, right next to the window, and stopped. Steve was dressed in a red flannel shirt with a white undershirt underneath. He had cut his hair short and trimmed his beard. He looked beautiful in the dim light of the restaurant and Bucky's heart trembled inside of him. Steve was studying a menu, a slight frown between his eyebrows, tongue slightly peeking out. And seriously, Bucky's chest felt full to the brim with how much he loved that man and how grateful he was for having a chance at this again.

As if he felt Bucky's gaze on him, Steve looked up from the menu and glanced outside the window, his eyes instantly laser-focused on Bucky. His blue eyes immediately brightened, soft crinkles at their corners making him all the more endearing.

Bucky couldn't help himself. He smiled back and finally opened the door to the restaurant. A soft chiming sound announced his arrival and Steve stood up, shining with happiness and love.

And Bucky?

Smiling brightly, he went to join him.

 

 

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to write this story for the past year and it wasn't an easy trip for me. At times, I needed to be reminded that writing this story should be fun and I should just enjoy the ride. Of course, reading it again, it doesn't resemble much to my initial outlining but I like how it turned up. 
> 
> I have an immense debt of gratitude to [waitingforasaturday](https://waitingforasaturday.tumblr.com/), my artist, who's been very kind and patient with me. She was really lovely, reminded me that this challenge should be fun, and managed to create awesome art in the process. I stared in awe at my gorgeous banners too. Thank you for everything. :) And here's the link to the gorgeous   
> [art](https://waitingforasaturday.tumblr.com/post/178933778412/i-had-the-privilege-of-working-with-maikurosaki) \- Please go and show her some love. :)
> 
> My deepest thanks also go to [insomincat94](http://insomnicat94.tumblr.com/). Without her help, I would have burnt in a hell of grammatical errors, spelling confusions, and wrong prepositions. She's been very patient and kind with my awful mistakes and I hope I didn't scare her for good. Also, her comments were lovely and helped me keep my passion for this story. She did a brilliant job and the story improved a thousand times with her thorough input. Any mistakes left are mine and mine alone.
> 
> I'd recommend you listen to _Forget Me Not_ by Heinrich Lichner (Op. 106/ 6 Piano)– it is one of my favorite piano pieces and I thought it fit perfectly the story. 
> 
> And if you made this far, as always, thank you, kind reader, for choosing to spend time with this story. :)


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